Between a Wok and a Hard Place (12 page)

perhaps that is going too far, but you get what I mean. Anyway, I'm sure you can understand why I felt guilty for being

elated that my husband's return home was delayed.

"See you when you get here," I said, hoping the ' cheer in my voice sounded like brave stoicism.

"That's my girl," Aaron said, the pride in his voice evident. "Your stiff upper lip could support the British Empire." I'm

sure he meant that as a compliment.

"Ta ta and all that," I said.

"Magdalena? Don't you miss me anymore?" he asked, taking a sudden emotional turn.

"Why, of course, Aaron. I'm just trying to make the best of it."

But I felt like a liar when I got off the phone.

I certainly didn't feel like talking to the reporter from the National Intruder. Of course the man didn't announce himself

as such, but I can smell a member of the pukerazzi (Aaron's word, not mine) a mile away. Over the years I have had my

share of run-ins with this species, and believe you me, they can tell some doozies. Take that pregnant rock star who has

been in the news a lot lately - she was not impregnated by Michelangelo’s DNA scraped from me ceiling of the Sistine

Chapel. Who in their right mind would believe that? I have it directly from the Swiss doctor, a former guest of mine, who

performed this test tube operation that the father is Hannibal, and that the DNA he left behind was found perfectly

preserved in a Swiss glacier.

"They're not here,” I said curtly to man at the door.

He had the audacity to grin. "Of course not. You expecting them back soon?"

"Actually, they checked out about an hour ago." I honestly had no idea who he was talking about, but it certainly

wasn't any of my current guests. None of them were famous enough to warrant an in-person visit from the National

Intruder.

"You rented them rooms?"

"The best."

"How much did you charge? And where did they get the money?"

I told him my top rate for celebrities and added that it was none of his business where they got then money. Frankly,

it isn't my business, either, unless the money is nefariously earned at my inn.

"They slept in beds?" he asked stupidly.

"No, they slept standing on their heads."

He jotted that down, the grin growing. "What did they eat?"

"Plastic. Anything plastic they could lay their hands on."

He snickered. "I suppose they were green ?"

"Hot pink with sequins. Well, that is, all of but one. He was orange and black." That part was perfectly true. I did have

guests like that once. How was I to know that the Amazing Zebrina Brothers were a trio of itinerant magicians, and that

Cleo, the fourth member of their party, was a full-grown Bengal tiger? Susannah, of course, knew, which is why she

intercepted their application and made the arrangements herself. During the Amazing Zebrina Brothers' weeklong stay

she dated all four of them. Well, she didn't exactly date the tiger, but she got so close to him that I actually feared for

Shnookums's life. The mangy mutt wouldn't even have been a mouthful. Still - and it surprises me to say this - it was a

rather pleasant week. The Brothers were both amusing and amazing, and as for Cleo the tiger, he was far better behaved

than the Dixon children.

"Pink, orange, black." The man from the National Intruder wrote it all down.

"Is that all then?" I asked pleasantly. Who says I can't turn the other cheek?

"Yeah." He started to walk away, but turned abruptly after three steps. "Here." He slapped an envelope in my hand.

I stared at the envelope. "What's this for?"

"Give it to the old man. Mr. Miller. This story is too hokey even for us, but hey, I've got a grandpa. I know what it's

like."

I slapped the envelope back into his hand. "What?"

"You know, the old man. The one who called and said he saw some illegal Mexicans swimming in your pond."

"Oh, that's not my pond," I said carelessly. "And they were aliens from outer space, not - "

"So you saw it, too?"

Too late. I was trapped. Mama had warned me about my big mouth before, but she had never uttered a word about

the treacherousness of the National Intruder. And there was absolutely nothing I could do. My tongue was like a barbed

hook. No matter which way I twisted and turned, it was only going to get worse.

Suddenly, from behind every tree and bush on my property, popped a paparazzi. Bulbs flashed, video-tape whirled,

and laptops clacked. And for a long time I just stood there with my mouth wide open. It wasn't until the Dixon children, who

had tired of tying up Barbara Hostetler, wandered into the front yard to find out what all the fuss was about, that I found

my voice.

"Are these alien children?" a reporter from Slime magazine asked. The nasty woman prodded the tiniest Dixon tyke

with her pencil. Caitlin yelped, and some long dormant maternal feeling stirred within my meager bosom.

"They may be monsters," I said, "but they're mine. Touch them again and I'll sue you so fast you won't even have

time to sit down in court."

Granted, those were not the words of a good Mennonite, but rest assured, I paid dearly for them. Days later I saw my

face, mouth wide open, plastered across the cover of every scandal sheet carried by the Bedford supermarket in which I

shop. Without exception the images of the Dixon children were superimposed on my photo. Some of the adulterations

were very clear, and in one picture little Caitlin appears to be clinging to my skirt.

AMISH WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO ALIEN TRIPLETS, the best of the headlines read. As for the worst - well, those

are fillings in my mouth, not computer chips. I am not, nor have I ever been, an android.

All in all, both guests and family took the publicity pretty well. The Dixons appeared satisfied to learn that none of

their children's names had been mentioned in the rags. Susannah was too preoccupied with Melvin to even care. Freni

made me promise that if I did ever have triplets, I'd share the secret with her daughter-in-law. Only Aaron, who saw the

same covers up in Minnesota; had the nerve to raise a fuss.

"It was not a publicity stunt," I repeated patiently. "You know I have more people on my waiting list than I know what

to do with."

"But it's in every paper, Magdalena. Are you sure you didn't do or say something to get this kind of attention?"

That did it. That hiked my hackles just about as high as they'd ever been. If my Pooky Bear didn't believe me when I

said I was telling the" truth, then what was the point of it all?

"You have some nerve," I said, without raising my voice, "considering it's the old coot's fault to begin with!"

"Make sense, Magdalena."

"Pops," I hissed. "It was your precious Pops who called the paparazzi."

He had the audacity to snort with derision. "Pops? Why would he do something as stupid as that?"

"Because it was your Pops who saw the flying saucer land, that's why!"

The silence that followed was longer than your average wait in a doctor's office. And at long-distance prices, too.

"Are you sure?" he asked finally.

I tried willing myself to be calm, I really did. For all the good it did, I may as well have willed the sun to reverse its

course. Now, I'm not claiming this as an excuse, mind you, but if I recall correctly, Grandma Yoder had a bit of a temper.

So, perhaps - just maybe - it is possible that I received a mutated gene from her. Perhaps the pacifist blood that courses

through the veins of my kin is not the same as my blood. Perhaps I am hematologically challenged. How else can I

explain what I did next?

"Don't you ever hang up on me again," Aaron growled when I picked up on the tenth ring. "You slammed that

receiver down so hard I'm surprised it's still working."

"I beg your pardon! This is my phone."

"So, it's come to that, has it?"

I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. "Make sense, Aaron."

"Sooner or later it had to rear its ugly head."

"Huh?" Why were men so obsessed with sex?

"This property thing," Aaron said. "I knew it would be an issue after all."

"I still haven't the slightest idea what you mean."

"Of course you do. I came into this marriage a virtual pauper and you - well, you're rolling in it."

"What's mine is yours," I snapped. "And vice versa."

"Sure. You share your thriving business with me, and I share my dotty daddy with you. That makes perfect sense."

"I'm not complaining," I said. "Besides, you get to share Susannah. That evens things up a bit."

I was, being very generous and he knew it. A wise, mature man would have been grateful enough to keep his mouth

shut.

"Don't condescend to me, Magdalena. You know it irritates you to have Pops around."

"It does not." It's okay to lie to save a marriage. It's not in the Bible in so many words, but it's implied. Somewhere.

"Yeah, right. Well, there are some things you can't understand because you're a woman."

“Such as?”

“Such as how a man might find it emasculating to rely on his wife for charity."

"We're talking in circles, Aaron, and I don't want to fight anymore. You're the most precious thing to me in the entire

world. You're my" - I struggled to get the word out - "Romeo."

Coming from me that was as emotional an image as a bus full of nuns holding babies as it plummeted off a cliff. A

reasonable man would have given me something back.

"Romeo ran around in tights," Aaron said. "The emasculation continues."

I decided to give him another chance. "I love you, Pooky Bear."

After one of his interminable pauses he sighed.

"Yeah, me too."

"You - you man!" I shrieked, and slammed the phone down again.

Mere seconds later a car pulled into my driveway and someone rudely honked. I prayed for a charitable tongue.

12

My heart sank when I saw that it was Zelda. No doubt she had come to enlist my help in getting her stud-muffin back.

Well, she was going to be disappointed. I had caught a glimpse of my sister the day before when she sailed into the

PennDutch to retrieve a few bolts of her clothing, and let me assure you of this, she was happy. I haven't seen her shine

like that since Mama rubbed her with Vicks when she had a chest cold. So you see, there was no way I was going to help

Zelda come between my sister and happiness. Especially if that happiness could be found outside the PennDutch Inn.

"I'm sorry, dear." I said gently, having chosen to totally ignore the rude honking, "but it's out of the question. Blood is

thicker than water."

"That's because you have a well," Zelda said dryly. "You'd be surprised at what comes out of the taps in Hernia."

"Still, I'm not going to help you get Melvin back." She shook her head so hard a few strands of short dark hair popped

up through the inch of restraining grease.

"I don't want Melvin back. That's not why I'm here. It's about Enos."

"Enos Mast?" I don't believe in hocus-pocus premonitions, or any of that nonsense, but every hair on my arms was

standing at attention.

"Last night he was shot and nearly killed. A .22-caliber bullet hit him in the head, fracturing his skull. The bullet

stopped just short of entering his brain, but there was some bleeding, and he's still unconscious. We took him to Bedford

County Memorial Hospital, but he's been airlifted to Trauma Care Center in Pittsburgh.

"Oh my." I sat down on the top step of my front porch.

"Harvey Zook found the Mast horse and buggy wandering around on top of Stucky Ridge."

"What was Harvey doing up on Stucky Ridge at night?"

As if I didn't know. He was courting, of course. Stucky Ridge is the highest point around and offers splendid views of

Hernia by day, and on exceptionally clear nights, even the lights of greater Bedford can be seen twinkling seductively.

There is only a gravel lane leading to the top of the ridge, and at the crest it splits, the right fork veering off to a picnic