I used to get up with the chickens. Literally. I don’t mean to say that I slept in the hen house, or they in my bed, but we got up at the same time. Before the late, great disaster—which I still say was a tornado—I owned a flock of fifty-three laying hens and one irascible rooster. The cock was named Chaunticleer and his favorite wife—also my favorite hen—I called Pertelote. To my knowledge they were the only literary fowl in Bedford County, and very near and dear to my heart.
Then along came that horrible storm and my flock went flying, never to be seen again. Undoubtedly some were eaten by foxes and raccoons, but I have a sneaking suspicion a few managed to sail over the border into Maryland and ultimately ended up on the dinner tables of folks living there. Most of my hens were past their laying days and far too old to be consumed by humans, but those Marylanders, I’ve heard, will eat anything that Comes flying down the pike.
At any rate, I was up and dressed by five-thirty, and had just sat down at the kitchen table with my first cup of coffee and the Bedford Times, when someone rapped sharply on the door. It was a good thing I was no longer holding the cup, because I jumped so high I got altitude
sickness. Okay, so maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but I was really spooked, and it took me a while to find my voice.
“Who is it?” I finally rasped.
“It’s me.” The speaker was obviously a male and his voice vaguely familiar.
“Be more specific, dear. The last time I checked there were almost eight billion ‘me’s in the world. Which one would you be?”
“It’s Samuel Berkey.”
That narrowed it down, but not as much as you might think. Berkey is a common Mennonite and Amish name, and Samuel is as ubiquitous as maple trees in Vermont. I knew eight men by that name in Bedford County, and six over in Somerset.
“It’s Samuel Berkey the Bishop’s son-in-law.”
“That narrows it down to two, dear.”
“Samuel Berkey with the straggly beard.”
“Ah, that Samuel Berkey. Strubbly Sam.” I strode to the door and flung it open. “Why didn’t you say so to begin with?”
Samuel blinked. He is an Amish man, perhaps in his early seventies, and he dresses in typical garb for this region: black pants, white shirt, black vest, and black coat. His shirt and coat fasten with hooks and eyes rather than worldly buttons. His pants are held up by suspenders. He wears a straw hat on weekdays, and on Sundays a wide-brimmed, black felt hat. Since he is a married man—well, a widower now—he wears a beard, and it is this feature that immediately distinguishes him from the other men in his generation. Sam’s beard is sparse to the point of looking messy. Strubbly, we call it in Pennsylvania-Dutch.
“Come in Strubbly Sam,” I said not unkindly. In a culture where so many share the same name, nicknames are not derisive, they are necessary.
Sam stepped in, and his glance swept the expanse of my kitchen. No doubt he was allowing himself the luxury of gazing upon modem electric-powered appliances he could never use, much less own. I’m sure had his wife Amanda been alive, he would have memorized every detail to recount that night at the dinner table.
“Here, for you,” Sam said, and handed me a wire basket, practically spilling over with eggs.
“Thank you.” I took the gift with mixed feelings. I knew Strubbly Sam by sight and reputation, but these were the first words we had ever exchanged. Sure, I saw him at the feed store from time to time, and sometimes at Cousin Sam’s Corner Market, but we definitely did not move in the same circles. I was a Mennonite woman, after all, and he an Amish man. For a fleeting moment, I flattered myself with the notion that Samuel Berkey had come to pay court. But because he was an Amish man, and I a Mennonite woman, this was highly unlikely. He was also old enough to be my father. Still, I tried to picture myself in a stiff black apron and a black bonnet, perched on the front seat of a buggy built for two. When the buggy turned down the drive of a farmhouse that lacked central heat and air conditioning, the fantasy faded.
But an egg is an egg, and I had an inn about to fill up with guests. I transferred the eggs from the wire basket to a large blue crock. Alas, several of the eggs were in less than pristine condition.
“You should have washed the eggs,” I said gently.
“Yah, that’s what my Amanda would say.”
I pointed to a chair, but he shook his head.
“So, Strubbly Sam, to what do I owe this honor?”
“Honor?”
“This visit—these eggs. Something on your mind?”
“Yah, Big Magdalena—”
“Big Magdalena? I may be five foot ten, but I’m skinny as a mop handle!”
“Ach”—he turned a lovely shade of salmon under his wispy whiskers—“there are things besides height and weight to consider.” I would have liked to think he was referring to my bosoms, but since I have a concave chest, there wasn’t enough evidence there to hang my hat on. Besides, his pale blue eyes were focused quite clearly on my probing proboscis.
“Why, I never! It is an honest Yoder nose. Just consider yourself lucky, buster, because you Berkeys have a little Yoder blood too.”
Strubbly Sam seemed startled. Then I remembered that he was not originally from around these parts, but from one of those far-flung Amish communities, like Nebraska or Paraguay. According to what Mama told me, Strubbly Sam had been on his way to Lancaster to visit some distant relatives, and when it was almost dark, sought accommodations with an Amish family for the night. The family he picked just happened to be the bishop, who just happened to have three of the most beautiful daughters ever to descend from Eve. Strubbly Sam never made it to Lancaster, and never returned to Paraguay, or Nebraska, or wherever he was from. Perhaps those foreign Berkeys lacked Yoder blood.
“Okay, so maybe there aren’t Yoders where you come from, but you’ve seen plenty enough here to know that my nose is not unique.”
“Ach, it isn’t just me who speaks of Big Magdalena.”
“What? You mean the entire community gossips about my shnoz?”
He removed his hat, revealing strubbly hair. “But there are six Magdalena Yoders in Bedford County, and nine in Somerset. It is only a name, Big Magdalena.”
“Don’t call me that!” I snapped.
He twirled the straw hat on his left index finger. “You are angry with me now, yah?”
I remembered the eggs. “Merely miffed, dear. So, Strubbly Sam, what is it you have on your mind?”
He gazed at my new bread-maker, a machine Freni refuses to use. “You are having guests, yah?”
“That’s what an inn is all about, dear. But I hate to dis-appoint you if you think you’re going to get a glimpse of Hollywood. For one thing, no one has arrived yet, and for another, this is not a Hollywood crowd.”
“Soldiers, yah?”
“Why, that gossipy little Freni! And they’re not soldiers—they’re veterans.”
“But veterans of a war, yah. Is that such a good idea?”
“Not you too!” I wailed.
“Big Magdalena—”
I glared at him.
“Ach, Magdalena, our people are committed to peace.”
“Quite true, dear, but these are elderly men converging to reminisce. They’re not going to be waging war on the countryside.”
“Yah, but—”
I held up a quieting hand. “And if they do, you can take refuge in my basement.”
Strubbly Sam smiled sadly. “What does Lustige Freni have to say about this?”
“Merry Freni? Boy, do you have a wrong number!”
He frowned, obviously confused.
“That woman is as merry as a mule with a burr under its saddle,” I said kindly.
“So she’s against it, yah?”
“Is that what you think? Well, she’s coming in to work today,” I said smugly. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
The threat of a chance encounter with Merry Freni sent Strubbly Sam speedily on his way. In fact, he left so quickly he left behind his wire basket.
Samantha Burk and her husband, John, were the first guests to arrive. I was amazed at how tiny Samantha was—even her hair was short. I couldn’t imagine how such tiny hands, barely larger than cat paws, could span an octave under any circumstances. But I was downright taken aback by her striking resemblance to an acquaintance of mine.
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to be related to Abigail Timberlake?” I asked as I wrote down their license plate number.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Feisty little southern gal, owns an antique store called the Den of Antiquity?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Hmm. You’re the spitting image of Abby—well, except that you have almond-shaped eyes and are a good ten years older.”
Samantha smiled. “The ‘almond’ eyes, as you so nicely put it, are the result of one too many facelifts.”
I clamped a hand over my mouth, lest my other foot try to get in as well. I should have known better, of course. I’ve seen movie stars whose eyelids close automatically whenever they open their mouths. The Good Lord only gave us so much skin to play around with, for heaven’s sake.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Samantha said quickly. “I’m not at all embarrassed by the subject. I had a face lift so I could look younger for my public. Many people don’t realize it, but concert pianists are celebrities. We have fans. We have images to uphold.”
I must say that I had never thought about concert pianists being celebrities. No doubt she was right, however; the mountain of luggage her husband had piled next to the front desk confirmed her celebrity status. I made a mental note to be nicer to Vladimer next time he called asking to reserve a room.
A car door slammed outside. Then another. Then the sound of raised voices, possibly even an argument.
“It seems like the next batch of guests has arrived,” I said brightly.
“Please, miss,” John Burk said, reaching for the as yet unproffered key. “Could we hurry this along a bit?”
Those were the first words the man had said. I was be-ginning to think his was a forced retirement from the history department at Duquesne. Mute professors have got to be a liability.
I stared at him. He was taller than me, and I’m five-ten. He was a good fifty pounds overweight, something I cannot be accused of being, and had scarcely any hair. Trust me, I have plenty of that, and in all the right places. But there was something ominous about him, something I can only describe metaphorically. John Burk looked like he walked around with a little rain cloud, not much larger than a powder puff, suspended above his head.
“What a charming accent,” I finally said. “Are you originally from Minnesota?”
For a split second he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. “You have an excellent ear, Miss Yoder. I was indeed born in Minnesota.”
“Minneapolis?”
“New Bedford—a tiny little town on the Canadian border. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. Anyway, I consider myself a Pennsylvanian now.”
“Welcome to Pennsylvania, dear.”
He grimaced. “I’ve lived here for fifty years. No doubt that’s longer than you have.”
I wrinkled my considerable nose. “No doubt, dear.”
“Miss Yoder, is there any way to hurry this along? I have a migraine headache and would really like to lie down.”
“Hold your horses,” I said sweetly, “your credit card company has me on hold.”
The diminutive Samantha put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm. “You go on up to the room, dear. I’ll finish up down here.”
He gave her a quick kiss that seemed stiff and unnatural, and snatched the key from my hand.
“Well, I never!”
He strode off without as much as a grant of apology. “Third room on the right,” I yelled at his back, “and be careful going up those impossibly steep stairs. I’m not liable if you take a tumble.”
Actually, I probably am. I don’t know what possessed me to have the same wickedly steep stairs rebuilt in my new inn—although I did have them carpeted to make them less slippery. A woman had fallen to her death on the old stairs, for crying out loud. Perhaps it was nostalgia—not for the corpse, mind you—but for life as it used to be. Before the inn blew down, before I married Aaron Miller, who was already married, thereby consigning myself to the rank of unwitting adulteress.
“What an evil man,” I muttered.
“Please excuse him,” Samantha said earnestly. “John is really a friendly, outgoing man. It’s just that these headaches can be so debilitating.”
“Just the same—”
“I brought those books you asked for,” she said smoothly.
“You did?”
“They’re in one of these bags. I’ll get them for you the second I unpack.”
“Great!”
The Burk credit card cleared. I jotted down the confirmation number and handed her the slip to sign.
“Anyway, I was speaking of my ex-husband, dear. Well, in a sense he was my husband—I mean, we were never legally married, but—” I caught myself. “What are we going to do about all this luggage?”
She dashed off her signature. “Send it up with the bellhop.”
“I am the bellhop,” I wailed.
“Oh, that’s most unfortunate. Well, I suppose you could leave it there, until John feels better. Except for this”— she pointed to a large suitcase— “and that.” She pointed to a matching train case. “And of course, these three.”
“Well, I’ll take the big one up for you,” I said generously. “I’m sure you can manage the others in several trips.”
She shook her tiny head. “I really am sorry, Miss Yoder, but I can’t help you. It’s my fingers, you see. I can’t risk injuring them. You understand, don’t you?”
I shook my massive head and muttered something unintelligible.
“Thanks, that’s so kind of you,” she chirped and flew up the impossibly steep stairs in a manner quite unbefitting a woman of her years.
I was returning from my last luggage run, panting, when the second couple finally came through the door. Since I’d taken my time lugging those genuine, full-cowhide suitcases upstairs, I couldn’t imagine what had been keeping this duo in the parking lot. As soon as the missus opened her mug I knew.
“So, what’s the big deal? Couples fight all the time.”
I took one look at the woman and hated her instantly. I know, that’s not the Christian thing to do, but mine was a visceral reaction. The good Lord understands, I’m sure. Her frizzy blonde hair, her long pointed nose, her blue- gray eyes and lanky frame, added up to a sum that made me shiver with disgust. My sister Susannah feels the same way about lima beans.
The man, a veritable giant, winced. “Please, Sandy, not in front of her.”
“Why not? She ain’t going to hear nothing she ain’t heard before.”
I stiffened, forcing myself to think of greenbacks. Alas, it was hard to concentrate. The truth be known, I have plenty of money squirreled away, perhaps enough to last me the rest of my life. What I lacked was a sense of purpose, and since it was clear I was never going to have any grandbabies of my own to hold, reopening my business had seemed the right way to go. Only now I wasn’t so sure.
“Welcome to the PennDutch Inn,” I said in a fake German accent. It is what I do for all my guests, even the obnoxious ones.
“Howdy, Ma’am,” the man said. He was too embarrassed to even make eye contact. “Name’s Bob Hart. We spoke on the phone.”
“Ah, yes. Bob and Sandy from Tulsa. Did you have a nice trip?”
“Ha!” she barked. “That’s a laugh! You ever eat sausage cooked in a microwave?”
“Excuse me?”
“Airplane food is the pits, and them ain’t mountains,” she said, waving her beak over her shoulder.
I smiled a fake American smile. “Yes, they are, dear. They’re the Allegheny Mountains.”
“That may be their name, but they ain’t mountains. I know, cause I seen the real things in Colorado.”
I prayed for a Christian tongue, despite my heathen heart. “So, you must be anxious to check in after a long trip like that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bob said quickly.
“Maybe you are,” she sniffed, “but I ain’t so sure.”
“Sandy, please.”
“He said we were going to an Ayemish bed and breakfast. Only this don’t look no different than a regular bed and breakfast.” She thrust her needle nose over the counter, parking it inches from my face. “You Ayemish?”
“The word is ‘Amish,’ dear. And no, I’m not. I’m Mennonite. But this is a bed and breakfast.”
Frizzy withdrew her proboscis and turned to her husband. “You see, she ain’t even Ayemish. She’s just a Manynite.”
“My cook’s Amish. She wears a bonnet and everything.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “Big deal. They have one of those at the Dutch Kettle restaurant back home. I was expecting to stay with a real Ayemish family—take buggy rides and everything. I sure don’t want to spend good money to stay in a dump.”
I gasped.
“Okay, so maybe that’s a strong word, but this ain’t the Taj Mahal.”
“Thank heavens for that,” I said. “The Taj Mahal is a tomb. Now, if you’ll be so kind, the door is that way!” Sandy gaped at me.
“Please,” Bob said, pushing her gently aside. “Please give me a moment to explain.”
I tapped one of my size eleven shoes on the hardwood floor. “Your moment passed the minute she walked through that door.”
“Come on, Bob.” Sandy tugged furtively on her husband’s arm. “We don’t need to put up with this crap.” Actually, she used a much worse word, which I won’t repeat. I glared at her, which was like glaring into a frizzy sun, so I glared at her husband. Bob, quite frankly, was easy on the eyes. Not only was he tall, but he had a square jaw, a strong chin, and hair the color of polished sterling. His only imperfection were his eyebrows, which were still black and threatening to grow out of bounds.
“You go on ahead, dear,” Bob said calmly but firmly to his wife. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Much to my surprise, Sandy did what she was told. The second my heavy oak door closed behind her, Bob turned to me.
“She doesn’t mean what she says, ma’am. She’s bipolar.”
“That’s no excuse, dear. Some of my best friends are bicoastal, and they don’t act like that. Besides, I thought you live in Oklahoma.” I wasn’t going to volunteer the information, but flitting back and forth between the arctic and Antarctica would make me crabby too.
He smiled. “We do live in Oklahoma. Bipolar means she suffers from manic-depression. You know, two mood extremes.”
“Oh.”
“You see, instead of feeling giddy during their manic phase, some folks feel intensely irritable. Sandy falls into the irritable category.”
“No kidding.”
“Her condition is not an excuse for her behavior, but I hope it’s an explanation.”
“Is she on medication?”
“Yes, and believe it or not it helps tremendously. Usually she’s much more even keeled. I think this particular onset was brought on by the stress of the trip.”
“How long do you think this episode will last?” Boy, was that a mistake. I should have just told him to haul his gangly wife back inside so I could clasp her lovingly to my scrawny bosom.
“It could end any minute. And she’s really very nice when you get the chance to know her. In fact, she’s kind of like you.”
“She is not,” I wailed. “My verbs agree with their subjects!”
“Ma’am?”
“Oh, all right. You can stay, but keep her away from me until she evens out.”
“It’s a deal, ma’am.”
Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest, and I was finally doing just that—sitting in the parlor, dozing, when my sister Susannah swirled into the room. Alas, my sister marches to the beat of her own drum, and it’s a rhythm unique to her. The woman eschews conventional clothing and dresses in yards and yards of diaphanous material that she drapes about herself in various methods, depending on how hard the wind is blowing. She is the only woman I know who carries a live dog—a minuscule, mangy mutt named Shnookums—around in her bra. Susannah never wears proper shoes—only sandals—even in the dead of winter, and if her feet sometimes get cold, her face never does. Only one other woman in the world wears as much makeup as does Susannah, and that is our assistant police chief, Zelda Root. Both Zelda and Susannah claim to have given Tammy Faye lessons in the art of makeup application, and both admit that they failed miserably in their efforts. Compared to Susannah, Tammy Faye sports that freshly scrubbed look.
“There you are!” Susannah cried, as her outfit drifted into the room behind her. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Mags.”
I opened one eye. I hadn’t seen my sister in almost three weeks. During that time I hadn’t been more than ten miles from the inn.
“Oh, Mags, you’re just not going to believe it. I’ve got the most exciting news to tell you!”
I opened the other eye. “You’ve decided not to join that ashram in India you were raving about the last time I saw you?”
“That ashram was in West Virginia, not India. And besides, they wouldn’t take dogs.”
“Remind me to send them a small donation.”
“Oh, Mags, you’re just impossible! I’m going to marry Melvin, that’s what.”
“Mel Gibson is happily married, and even if he wasn’t, Freni gets first dibs.”
Susannah rolled her eyes. It is her only talent, but I must say, she is unparalleled at it. Perhaps it is just an optical illusion, but it appears to me that she can roll them upwards a complete three hundred and sixty degrees, so that the irises reappear above her lower lids. I know this sounds impossible, but just you wait until you’ve said something really stupid to her.
“Not that Melvin—Melvin Stoltzfus.”
“Sure, anything you say.” As the young folks these days say, I was not about to go there. Melvin is my nemesis. The man looks like a praying mantis, which I’m sure he can’t help, but he has that insect’s heart and brain as well. Even that would be of no concern to me, except for the fact that Melvin is Hernia’s chief of police. Unfortunately, my inn has had its share of corpses and—oh, well, enough said. It is my Christian duty to keep a charitable tongue in my head at all times.
Susannah tapped a size-eleven sandal on my hardwood floor. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
I shrugged.
“Come on, I know you’re dying to say something, so just spit it out.”
“You’ve been engaged to Melvin more times than Elizabeth Taylor’s been married,” I said kindly. “Why should I take this threat seriously?”
“This isn’t a threat, Mags. I’ve done some serious thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion maybe it’s time I grew up.”
“You know, of course, that once you’re married...” There was no need to finish the sentence. My sister knew exactly what I meant. It pains me to say this, but Susannah is a slut. There really is no other word for it. The woman’s bedroom door has seen more male traffic than the turnstile at the state fair. I don’t mean this literally, of course, because I won’t permit hanky-panky on my premises. But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and Susannah has had her way in every cheap motel this side of the Mississippi.
Please understand that this character defect of hers is not shared by yours truly. Until my ill-fated marriage to Aaron Miller, the only sex I’d ever had was that one time I absentmindedly sat on the washing machine during spin cycle. In retrospect—and I’m sure it’s a sin to even say this—I’d have been much better off having a full-blown affair with my Maytag. At any rate, I’m not sure whether Susannah’s aberrant behavior is genetic or the result of poor parenting. Could it be neither? I mean, Mama was a virgin when I was born (Papa probably was too), and both parents made it infinitely clear that sex before marriage was wrong. Still, somehow Susannah’s apple not only managed to fall far from the tree, it rolled out of the orchard altogether.
Susannah was nodding vigorously. “I know what you’re thinking. But Melvin and I have talked this over, and we both think we can be faithful.”
“Melvin?” It had never, even for a second, occurred to me that Melvin Stoltzfus had the option of being unfaithful. Not only is he cosmetically challenged, for crying out loud, but he has the intelligence of a fence post. He once mailed his favorite aunt in Scranton a gallon of ice cream—by U.P.S.! And did I mention the time he was kicked in the head because he tried to milk a bull?
“Oh, Mags, he’s everything I ever wanted in a man.”
“But he’s not even human!” I wailed, and then clamped my hand over my mouth before I could say something unkind.
“So, Mags, will you give me away?”
“Will I what?”
“You know, give me away like Papa would, if he were still alive.”
Frankly, I was touched. Moved almost to the verge of tears. Susannah had been only twenty when Papa died, killed instantly along with Mama in a tunnel, when the car they were driving was sandwiched by a milk tanker and a truck carrying state-of-the-art running shoes. Since then I have been both father and mother to Susannah. I have also bailed her out of jail more times than Robert Downey, Jr.’s, lawyers have had to spring for him. Because I’ve had to act as parent, principal, and guidance counselor, we have not always seen eye to rolling eye.
“When is the wedding?”
“Wednesday morning at ten.”
“This Wednesday?”
“Melvin got us this special rate to Aruba and—”
“But that’s impossible, dear. I could never get a wedding put together that soon. I mean, I’ve got paying guests coming from all over and—well, I suppose I could do something in the barn.”
“The barn!”
“That’s where I was married,” I reminded her needlessly.
Susannah laughed. “Don’t worry, Mags. It’s all been settled. Melvin’s mama is throwing the wedding. I just want you to give me away.”
My mouth must have opened and closed repeatedly, like a baby bird begging to be fed.
“You understand, don’t you, Mags? Melvin is an only child. This is her only chance to put on a wedding.”
“What about me?” I wailed.
Susannah smiled. “You had your own wedding, remember? The one in the barn?”
“But—but—but—” I was sputtering like a grease fire in a rainstorm.
Susannah lunged forward and enveloped me in fifteen feet of filmy fabric. To put it plainly, she hugged me. Neither of us is genetically programmed for such an intimate, nonsexual gesture, and I was stunned. Then, quite inexplicably, four centuries of inbred reserve dropped from me like a discarded mantle and I returned her hug. Perhaps I squeezed too hard. I certainly, and quite stupidly, forgot about the dinky dog lurking in the nether regions of her underpinnings.
The beast howled pitifully.
I staggered backward several steps, but not before the maniacal mutt had managed to mangle my mammary with his malodorous mandibles. Okay, maybe I overstated the extent of my injuries, but I’m telling you—it hurt every bit as much as that time I innocently poked my proboscis in Susannah’s electric pencil sharper.
It was a tossup as to which of us howled the loudest, Shnookums or me.