"You're a superb cook!" I said and fled from the room with one second to go.
If I had been thinking clearly, not rattled by the conflux of hunters and A.P.E.S., I would have dashed into Hernia and picked up some fresh vegetables at the supermarket. Then I would have made a huge salad and everyone would have been satisfied. The English love their iceberg lettuce. It seems almost to have a pacifying effect on them.
Personally, I'm not much on eating raw green leaves. The fact that you have to put stuff on it in order to make it palatable seems absurd to me. Why not just down the stuff straight from the bottle and leave the leaves to the rabbits! But this is only my opinion. And if I had been less opinionated, and more accommodating, there might not have been a corpse clutching Mama's dresden plate quilt.
4
The new dining room occupies the entire bottom portion of the new wing. It is actually much more than a dining room. In one comer there is a half-finished quilt stretched across a sturdy oak frame. Guests are invited to try their hand applying a few neat stitches. Of course, if their needlework is lousy, Freni or I will rip out the stitches within moments of their checking out. I do, after all, sell the quilts in some of the trendiest gift shops along the East Coast.
If quilting's not their thing, guests can always try spinning or weaving in the other back comer of the vast room. Neither
Freni nor I knows anything about either of these two pursuits, although some of the guests appear to be rather proficient at it. One two-week guest spun and wove a very attractive scarf, which I in turn sold for fifty dollars at our own little gift shop by the front desk.
I must admit there isn't much for men to do in the way of indoor activities, so. I always suggest they shuck com. For that purpose I keep a bushel basket of tasseled com beside each of the armchairs that ring the back fireplace. Except for the odd ear, the men never shuck any. It seems that they much prefer to nap after Freni's meals, than engage in any kind of activity. Any kind.
Or so their wives sometimes confide to me.
We do, of course, actually eat in the dining room. The single, solid oak table that stretches almost two thirds of the length of the room is the same table we used when Susannah and I were growing up. It was built by my great-grandfather Jacob "The
Strong" Yoder from a tree that occupied the site of the original farmhouse. This table can seat twenty people comfortably, twenty- six in a pinch. Incidentally, Jacob "The Strong" and his wife, Magdalena, had sixteen children and forty-seven grandchildren.
But enough of my family history. My point is that all the guests eat at the same table. I sit at my rightful place at the head of the table, which just happens to be the end nearest the kitchen door, and Susannah takes her rightful place at the foot. If she happens to be home.
Freni and Mose do not eat with us. Even if Freni could countenance supping with the English, her sensitivities would never allow her to watch them eat her food. Or not eat it, as the case may be. Freni and Mose live in what is called a
"grandparents house" on their youngest son's farm, which is really only a stone's throw from here if you take the shortcut. They eat a late supper there. Although I am tempted to digress further and tell you a little about their rather strange relationship with this son, it really isn't your business, is it? Or mine, for that matter.
At any rate, it seems to work out fairly well, having the guests eating together at the same table at the same time. Nobody ever feels lonely, although a few people have complained about feeling snubbed. But then, you can't have everything, can you?
Of course, I'm the one who determines the seating arrangement. It wouldn't do for perfect strangers to plop themselves down just anywhere. I at least know a little bit about each one, and try to maximize compatibility. So just ignore Susannah's complaints.
Speaking of which, Susannah is supposed to help me set the table, but I usually end up doing it all myself. I keep it simple. I don't use tablecloths. It's not that I'm theologically opposed to tablecloths, but you wouldn't believe the way some of our guests eat! Money does not equate with manners. If I used tablecloths I'd have to spend most of my time doing laundry, which is no way to run a business. Besides, not only does the bare, plank table seem authentically Amish, but the splinters it imparts go a long way to keeping elbows off the table.
Of course we use dishes. I will admit, however, that I am a little tight-fisted when it comes to shelling out for crockery.
What is the point of using bone china when the guests are expecting to eat off hand-thrown clay pottery? Believe me, the ironstone I originally picked up at the Woolworth's in Somerset, and have been supplementing from garage sales ever since, works just fine.
And is it my fault if people assume that I, or one of many relations, made the stuff? I was not trying to be devious when I put tape over the manufacturer's name on the back. I merely needed someplace to write "Property of the PennDutch Inn."
Guests never quite know what to expect when it comes to their first meal at the inn; still, I do my best not to disappoint them. Atmosphere is what they're paying for, and atmosphere is what I give them. If I had my way, I'd begin each meal with everyone holding hands and bowing their heads for a prayer. After meals I would read the Bible to them, in German of course, and we'd sing a few ancient Swiss hymns. But not even Susannah would sit still for that.
Instead, I have to content myself with hostessing stuff. I greet each of the guests as they officially enter the dining room for the first time and take them to their seat. Normally I would speak to them in my fake German accent, which is frankly quite charming.
But on this particular day, the one just prior to deer- hunting season, I was in a quandary. Thanks to the rude
Congressman, Garrett Ream, and the huffy Ms. Parker, my guests all knew my accent was a fake. The question now was whether or not I should resume this quaint affectation, or talk like the English. Reluctantly I decided to abandon my cultural heritage.
Susannah, I knew, would be relieved.
"Good evening," I said pleasantly to Mrs. Ream, who was the first person to enter the dining room. People of her breeding are precise about time. "Allow me to show you to your seat."
Lydia Ream smiled her appreciation and followed obediently. "The Congressman and Mr. James will be down shortly.
They're taking a call."
I seated Lydia to my immediate left. I had every reason to trust her table manners and I wanted to get a better look at her dress. I have never had to institute a dress code at the Inn, because people of this ilk generally conform to acceptable standards.
However, seldom do they dress as swank and spiffy as Lydia Johns Ream.
I guess you would call it a ball gown. It was floor-length, made of some kind of taffeta, and in front it was cut low enough to cause a chest cold. It was also bright red, a color our mother had always forbidden Susannah and me to wear for modesty's sake. Mrs. Ream was also wearing jewelry. Real jewelry. Diamonds and rubies and things.
"You look very nice," I said. I meant it.
"Thank you. I hope I haven't overdressed."
Thankfully, just then Ms. Parker strode into the room followed by her young prot‚g‚e, Linda McMahon. I scurried to meet them, but before I could intercept them they had settled themselves at the far end of the table. Linda had seated herself on the far end, opposite Lydia's side, and Jeanette was seated at the very end, right in Susannah's chair.
"Good evening," I said perfunctorily, and then cut right to the chase. "This end seat is reserved."
"There is no card or sign to indicate that." Jeanette Parker did not display the slightest intention of moving.
"Actually, we have no need for cards, because all the seating is done by me, your hostess."
Linda stood up, but Jeanette remained rooted to Susannah's chair. Perhaps literally so. She was, after all, wearing a homespun cotton pajama outfit that was dyed a very pale shade of green. Had it not been for her flaming orange hair, she would have looked for all the world like a giant rutabaga. Of course most rutabagas don't talk.
"Ms. Yoder," said this rutabaga, "I just about broke my neck coming down those impossibly steep stairs of yours, not to mention that I pinched a nerve in my lower vertebrae trying to nap on that hideous thing you call a mattress. The fact that I can sit at all is something of a miracle. Is it really so necessary that I move, now that I've finally gotten comfortable?"
"Yes," I said and turned to greet Joel Teitlebaum and Billy Dee Grizzle, who had appeared at the door. I may never be a mother, but twenty-two years of teaching Sunday School at Beech Grove Mennonite Church have taught me how to deal with children.
"Evening, ma'am," said Billy Dee cordially. He had changed from a plaid to a plain denim shirt, which was the perfect foil for the rather attractive bola tie he was wearing.
"Good evening," I said just as pleasantly, and then for his ears only I whispered, "Don't worry. The reporter doesn't take meals with us."
Billy Dee nodded, and I turned my attention to Joel Teitlebaum.
If possible, Joel Teitlebaum was looking even taller and skinnier than he had before. He was wearing corduroy slacks, a striped shirt, and a narrow striped tie, which undoubtedly accounted for it. And although it might have been just my imagination, it seemed to me that his color had improved. Milking must have agreed with him.
"How did you like milking?" I asked. Frankly, I found it strange that someone who didn't drink milk on principle would be interested in such an activity.
Joel's color improved even more when he blushed. "Actually, I didn't go milking after all. I decided to nap instead. But
Mose, I mean Mr. Hostetler, said he'd let me help him tomorrow."
"I see," I said. Actually I didn't. Not only was there far too much napping going on, but an hour of Mose's time was now unaccounted for. Unless he'd been napping as well. Either way, it was best Freni not find out about it.
I seated Joel to the left of Linda, who had scooted up one chair to make room for Jeanette. They were, after all, roughly the same age, and undoubtedly knew each other, since they were both conspirators for A.P.E.S.
Billy Dee, however, posed a problem. If I put him down on the far end, on the other side of Susannah, my sister would just make a fool of herself. I couldn't very well move him next to Lydia and have him come between her and her husband, could I? So I took the only option I had left and put him on my immediate right, next to Joel. My intentions were entirely pure, I assure you.
Fortunately we didn't have to wait much longer for Congressman Ream and Delbert James. But no sooner did they step into the room than both men appeared to do a double take. It was as if they had accidentally entered the wrong room and were flustered at their mistake.
"This is the right place," I assured them with a laugh. Unfortunately my laughs can sound pretty phony when I'm irritated.
Or so says Susannah.
Delbert at least displayed the good manners to apologize for his tardiness. I graciously accepted his apology and seated him down by Susannah, opposite Jeanette. It would be interesting to see if the two of them made a pitch for the man. Although his type didn't appeal to me personally, he was certainly a dapper man, pale pink dress shirt notwithstanding.
As for Congressman Ream, of course I seated him next to his wife, to the right of Delbert James. Like his wife, he had dressed formally for dinner. Although he did cut a handsome figure in his dinner jacket and bow tie, he was not nearly as impressive as his wife. Then again, one is never quite dressed without good manners, I always say.
Even I was about to give up on Susannah when she came swirling into the room. I might have known. My baby sister must have caught a glimpse of the elegant Mrs. Ream and decided to outdo her. Not that she could, of course. To my knowledge
Susannah does not own any ball gowns, much less expensive jewelry. She does, however, possess a first-class imagination.
If Mama could have foreseen Susannah's outfit, she would have put off dying for another twenty years. "Outfit" is the only word I can use to describe what my sister was wearing. It was definitely neither a dress nor a pants suit. It was definitely hot pink, and sheer enough to strain soup through. It was both billowing and confining. Parts of it trailed behind her like streamers in the wind, yet in a few critical areas there didn't seem to be enough of it at all. And as if that weren't enough, Susannah had accessorized her creation with five pounds of cheap glass jewelry and a pound or two of makeup. Had I not smelled the cheap scent of her perfume, I would not have known at first who it was.
"You're late," I whispered as she flowed by.
Susannah didn't even glance my way. She was far too busy noticing that Billy Dee was not seated down at her end of the table. This made her scowl, until she noticed Delbert James. With a great flutter of fabric, Susannah settled herself in the chair vacated by Jeanette.
