The Berkey farm hasn’t seen a plow for over a generation. Mama played there as a little girl, and often told me of the wildflower garlands she and the Berkey girls made. Then a botanist from the University of Pittsburgh “discovered” that these asters were the remnants of a species once thought to be extinct, and the farm was bought by the state. No good came from that sale. The “fair price” the Berkeys were offered (there was no option to refuse) wasn’t enough to buy comparable acreage anywhere else in Bedford or Somerset Counties and the family emigrated north and west, to the area around New Wilmington. A year after their eviction the entire family was killed when a bus full of musicians skidded on a snowy road and crashed into the Berkey buggy. The very next year another botanist discovered that the Hernia asters (disasters we now called them) were not a distinct species after all, but a stunted form of the common aster (Chrysopsis mariand). The Berkeys, it seemed, had farmed the most infertile piece of land in the county. It was a wonder they’d been able to live on it for six generations.
At any rate, the land remained fallow until last year when the state dumped it on a developer out of Pittsburgh. Create-A-Dream subdivided the hilly property into eight five-acre plots and offered the concept of “estate living.” So far only one couple had coughed up the requisite dough to live the life of a country squire. Although the Hamptons, who hail originally from New York, had immediately dubbed their place Hampton Hill, and set out an attractive and expensive sign advertising the name, we locals still referred to it as the Berkey farm.
I drove Archibald’s rental car up a long gravel driveway lined with newly planted maple saplings and marveled at what I saw. Ahead of me loomed a house, the likes of which Hernia had never before seen. To call the columned three-story brick structure pretentious was like calling my sister Susannah a floozy. At least in the years before she married Melvin. Susannah once dated an entire team of amateur baseball players, at the same time, and—well, perhaps I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school. My point is that the Hamptons did not subscribe to understatement.
We Mennonites and Amish could not understand what just two people did with all that room. The English among us—Hernia has its share of Lutherans, Baptists, and even Presbyterians—were just plain jealous. If pressed, I may admit that there have been times when I have lusted in my heart, and maybe even drooled over my steering wheel while driving past the mansion.
Unfortunately for the Hamptons, bewilderment and envy are not emotions conducive to making friends. No doubt it was loneliness that drove them to seek human company among the aisles of Miller’s Feed Store. For all I knew, their trip to the Grand Canyon was bogus, thought up just as an excuse to take Barbara and her babies out to Iowa.
My poised finger had yet to touch the bell button, when the massive door flew open. The suction created by this sudden action pulled me into the foyer, and I found myself sliding along a polished hardwood floor. I dug in my heels and came to a stop just inches from an authentic Roman bust atop a marble pedestal.
“Hail, Caesar,” I said.
“Actually that’s Nero.”
I turned. Mr. Hampton was standing there, all dressed up as if he were going to church.
“Did I come at a bad time?” I asked.
“Absolutely not.” He extended a manicured hand. “Cleveland Hampton here. You must be Magdalena Yoder.”
“What? I am, but how did you know?”
“Everyone in Hernia knows who you are. You’ve been pointed out to us a number of times.”
“You mean,” I wailed, “my reputation precedes me?”
“We’ve heard only good things, I assure you.”
I beamed. It was hard not to like the man. He was good-looking—he would have been downright handsome even, except for that softness that often overtakes men in their fifties as testosterone levels drop and appetites are allowed to go unchecked.
“And I’ve heard things about you.”
“Good too, I hope?” This now was the wife who appeared in the doorway of the largest parlor I’ve ever seen.
“Positively,” I said, and tried to cross my toes. Alas, I only succeeded in giving myself a foot cramp, and had to stamp that tootsie like the counting pony at the state fair.
“Dorothy Hampton,” she said, extending her hand. “Please call me Dottie.”
“Please call me Magdalena.” Only one person dares to call me Mags and that’s my incorrigible sister.
“Of course. Won’t you come in?”
I took a moment to stare before answering. Freni was right. Dottie Hampton had the face of a twenty-year-old on the body of a woman my age. No, make that a woman much older than I. But I’ve met enough celebrities to recognize a knife job when I see one. The woman before me had been under a blade more times than last week’s Sunday roast. I daresay Dottie was familiar with lasers and chemical peels as well. Skin that smooth is commonly found on cheeks—but only on that certain pair of cheeks upon which the sun never shines (well, it ought not to, at any rate).
“Is something wrong?” Dottie asked. She nervously fingered an upswept hairdo. It was an attractive style on her, and a warm fresh brown. I’d seen that same shade on the shelves of Yoder’s Corner Market.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. I peered behind her. “My, what a beautiful room.”
“Thank you. I coaxed Oliver down from the city. He’s such a thoughtful man. He wanted to use distressed pieces, but I said I didn’t see the point, when real antiques could be so easily had in these parts. Why pretend something is old, when it’s not?”
“Why, indeed.”
She led me into the parlor, which she referred to as the sitting room. Cleveland followed a step behind, as if he were my equerry.
I couldn’t help but admire Oliver’s handiwork. It had taken a good eye to mix the dark wood furniture so common in this area with more luxurious, upholstered pieces. Some were covered in fabrics, the likes of which I had seen only in magazines.
“My grandmother had a love seat just like that,” I said. “But it was covered with horse hair, and of course she didn’t call it a love seat.”
“What did she call it?” Dottie asked pleasantly.
“She called it a bench, and we were never allowed to sit on it. Granny Yoder believed the only time a person should sit was if they were too old or too sick to stand.”
“How charming.”
I rolled my eyes. Granny Yoder didn’t sit until her ninety-third birthday. She never stood again, and in fact, died less than a month later.
“I much prefer something like that,” I said and pointed to an overstuffed chair upholstered in pale yellow silk. There was a matching ottoman.
“Then please, be my guest.”
I plopped my bag of bones on the cool soft chair and propped my size elevens on the cushiony stool. I’m afraid a moan of contentment may have escaped these lips. Few things have ever brought me so much pleasure, and so quickly. A warm bath, homemade fudge, lilac bouquets—not even my Kenmore—could compare to the Hamptons’ armchair.
The Hamptons perched on the love seat, their faces wreathed in anxiously gracious smiles. It was clear that I was their very first visitor.
“May we offer you a drink?” Dottie asked.
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
Cleveland stood. “What can I get you?”
“Oh anything. I’m not particular. Juice would be nice if you have it.”
“Dottie squeezes fresh orange juice every morning. In fact, we just made a pitcher of mimosas. How does one of those sound?”
“That would be lovely.” I certainly hoped the mimosa oranges were better than the Valencias I bought at Yoder’s Corner Market. No doubt sophisticated folks like the Hamptons bought their oranges at Pat’s IGA over in Bedford.
“Be back in a flash,” Cleveland said and practically ran from the room.
“My, what a helpful husband,” I couldn’t help but say.
“Cleve loves to entertain. Back in the city we did a lot of that.” Dottie sighed as she slumped, like a balloon losing air. “Well, there’s no use looking back, is there?”
I shook my head. “Not unless going back is an option. Is it?”
“Well—uh, I suppose we could. If we could find a buyer for this place.”
“I’m sure you’d have no trouble at all,” I said, just to be kind.
She glanced around at a parlor big enough to host a Hernia High football game. “You really think so?”
“Every house is salable—at the right price. Who knows, some other city couple might come along and decide to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”
“Really?” Dottie straightened, her voice edged with excitement. “I hadn’t thought of a bed-and-breakfast. What a wonderful idea! I bet you could give us a lot of pointers. From what I understand, your business has done quite well for you.”
“It’s not an easy business,” I wailed. “Guests are always ruining things, and you never have a moment of privacy.”
“Oh, but we love company and these”—she waved at the room—“are only things. Things that can easily be replaced.”
“Not this chair and ottoman. A guest might spill food on them.”
She laughed gaily. “Oh, I wouldn’t care. This is a wonderful idea, Magdalena.”
“What’s a wonderful idea?” Cleveland had returned bearing a silver tray, upon which stood three tall tumblers filled with liquid gold.
“Magdalena thinks we should turn our house into a bed-and-breakfast.”
“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Cleveland handed me a cold glass, gave his wife one, and held up the third. “This calls for a toast.”
“To brilliant ideas,” Dottie cried and took a swig of her drink.
Cleveland did likewise, so I had no choice but to follow. But when that home-squeezed juice passed my lips, I nearly gagged. It was all I could do to swallow. Clearly the Hamptons were used to inferior produce back in the Big Apple. Even the frozen concentrate Sam Yoder sold at the Corner Market tasted better than the orange swill in my glass.
“To generous neighbors!” Cleveland said. The poor, ignorant man seemed quite pleased with his beverage.
I was forced to take another slug of the awful stuff. It was exceedingly bitter. Either the oranges had been picked too green, or else the opposite was true, the fruit had been allowed to ripen too long and had turned. Yes, that almost certainly was it. The Hamptons, sophisticates that they were, had served me the juice of rotten oranges.
“To Magdalena!” Dottie held her glass up again.
Well, I simply had no choice but to quaff the horrible-tasting orange juice. Experience has taught me that the best way to consume a foul substance is to do it quickly. Why, even as young as age ten I could down one of Mama’s cod liver oil milkshakes—given whenever I was constipated—without pausing to breathe.
I slurped the last drops loudly. I read somewhere that this is considered good manners in some island societies. Perhaps Manhattan was one of these.
“My, that was good,” I said. This came surprisingly easy.
“Then have some more.”
Before I could protest, Cleveland was back in the room with a half-filled pitcher. He filled my tumbler almost to the brim.
“Now you make a toast, Magdalena.”
I felt surprisingly relaxed. “Okay, to—uh—to new neighbors and friends.”
“Yes, friends,” Dottie said. Although she and Cleveland took healthy sips of their drinks, they came nowhere near to draining their glasses. Never mind, I would set them a good example.
“More?” Cleveland asked.
I nodded. “Frankly, Frank, I mean Cleveland—what kind of name is that for a man from New York?”
“It was my mother’s maiden name. She was related to the President.”
“Bush?”
“Grover Cleveland.”
“Oh. Well, at any rate, I didn’t think so much of this juice of yours at first, but now it’s kind of growing on me.” I giggled. “Am I turning orange?”
“Cleve, I think she’s had enough,” Dottie said.
“Nonsense. Orange juice is full of vitamin C. You can never have too much.”
“Yes, but—”
“Pour away, Cleveland!”
Cleveland poured and then set the pitcher down on a glass-covered slab of granite that passed for a coffee table.
I drank. The amazing thing about those mimosa oranges, the juice gets sweeter the more you drink.
“Mmm,” I said, licking my lips, “now that really hits the pot.”
“Cleve, I think she’s getting tipsy.”
“Topsy-turvy!” I cried.
“People will think we’re a bad influence on the Mennonites and Amish.”
“Ah, exactly,” I said, and poked at the air with my index finger. “That’s why I’m here.”
“To drink mimosas?”
“To influence your badness. Do you, or do you not, sell drugs to the Amish?”
They gasped in unison. “We most certainly do not," one of them said.
“Yes, but do they sell you drugs?”
“Of course not!” Cleveland snatched the pitcher off the coffee table and cradled it protectively in his arms.
“I see.” I waved my empty glass aloft. “To the Amish. May they all be as cute as what’s his name. And speaking of cute”—I smiled at Cleveland—“you’re not so bad yourself.”
“Cleve, we should do something.”
“Cleve—now that’s from the Bible, isn’t it? ‘For this reason,’ ” I said, quoting the book of Mark, “ ‘a man will leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife.’ I bet you’ve been doing a lot of that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Cleaving.” I giggled.
“Cleveland, do something!”
Still holding the pitcher, Cleveland turned to me. “Coffee. I can get you coffee.”
“Never touch the stuff so early in the day.” I laughed at my little joke. “But you know what? You can tell me about yourselves.”
“Maybe some other time,” Dottie said.
“No time like the present,” I said.
Dottie stood. That was definitely the body of a sixty- year-old. I told her so.
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” Cleveland said.
“I do so. And I have nothing against plastic surgeons. It’s the rubber ones I can’t stand.”
“Magdalena, we will be happy to give you a ride home.”
“But I’m not through with my interrogatives.”
“Your what?” Dottie asked, her voice rising.
“You know, my questions. Like have you ever taken drugs? Maybe smoked a little reed?”
“I think she means ‘weed,’ ” Dottie said. “Cleve, we have to do something.”
“Confess!” I cried.
“Confess to what?”
“That you sold fairy dust to the Keims, of course. It killed Lizzie Mast, you know. That would make you murderers. Actually that would make you a murderess and Cleveland here just a plain murderer. But you’re both killers!”
I stood up to make my point, but my legs were as fluid as a rubber surgeon’s and I slumped to the floor in slow motion. I pretended to be a melting snowman.
“I’ll grab her arms,” Cleveland said, “you get her legs.”
“Rock-a-bye baby in the tree tops,” I sang, as they carried me out to their car.
From the depths of my meager bosom Little Freni mewed an accompaniment. I hate to say it, but I think she was the only one on key. At any rate, that was the last thing I remembered for a while.