Between a Wok and a Hard Place (18 page)

spouses in a time. They also got to hear words that even Susannah didn't know, not to mention her sailor friends. Did you

know that it is possible to pierce - well, never mind. Suffice it to say it is impractical if you're a nursing mother, which by

the way B.R was at the time.

“Wow," Terry said, “I didn't think nail-trimming was such a big deal.”

“Even filing one's fingernails in public is disgusting,” I said for his education.

And I'm sure you agree. If only Edna Naffziger did. Every Sunday morning she sits in the pew directly in front of mine,

shamelessly filing her nails while Reverend Schrock drones on with one of his interminable sermons. I know, that's an

awful thing to say about my minister, but it's true. His sermons not only lack fire, they are a free (if one ignores the offering

plate) substitute for melatonin.

At any rate, each and every Sunday morning Edna and the good Reverend go about their respective business, as

complacent as cud-chewing cows. At least, when the service is over, Reverend Schrock has only left behind a sea of

nodding heads, whereas vain Edna has covered the pew and the floor at her feet with a coating of nail powder. This

simply isn't fair to Old Man Schwartzentruber, our custodian, who has to clean up Edna's discarded body parts.

“It's more than disgusting,” I added. “It's downright vile.”

Terry had the temerity to grin. “I bet Mr. Yoder gets a kick out of you.”

“That's Mr. Miller,” I snapped, “and what he does is none of your business.”

“Yes, ma'am."

He was still grinning, which irritated me to no end. I like people to cringe those few times I actually lose my temper.

“Stop it this minute!"

The smiled slowly faded.

I swallowed enough irritation to make me gain a few pounds. "Now be a dear and drive for me. I threw my back out."

He grinned. "Oh, boy."

I gave him one of my sternest looks. "This is a brand-new car, buster. Treat it like a baby."

"Will do," he said gleefully and scooted over to the driver's seat, leaving a pile of parings behind on the floor. I made

him scoot back and shake off the passenger-side mat.

Properly chastened, his manners seemed to improve. "Shall I pick the feathers off your back, too?" he asked politely

when he was done.

We were halfway home when the storm, which must have been building up all day, broke. It was a downpour for the

record books I'm sure. Papa would have called it a frog-strangler, and Mama would have blamed Papa for not having built

and stocked a navigable ark.

Visibility vanished in a matter of seconds, and even Terry, whose eyes are much younger than mine, found it

impossible to see the road. Left with no alternative, he slowed to a stop, after pulling over on what we hoped was the

shoulder of Zweibacher Road.

"Man, it never rains like this in Southern California," he said. There was admiration in his voice.

"Ach, this is nothing,” I said proudly. "Just a little drizzle. We see this at least once a week."

"I want to go home," he wailed in a little girl's voice.

I stared at him. "Say that again."

"I want to go home!”

Terry's lips had not moved. Either Terry was a much better ventriloquist than an actor or - I whirled. There, huddled

in the backseat like a pair of lost puppies were little Lizzie and her English friend, Mary.

Trust me, it is perfectly proper to scream when faced with a startling discovery. It was, however, very rude of the little

girls to keep screaming so long, and there certainly was no excuse for Terry's shrieks.

Finally we all settled down enough to carry on a rudimentary conversation, albeit one punctuated by gasps and the

occasional shriek from Terry.

"What on earth are you two doing in my car?" I puffed.

"We wanted to run away," Lizzie sobbed.

"Why?"

"So the bad people don't get us," Mary whimpered.

Then her eyes widened and her chin began to tremble. "You have an awfully big nose, Mrs. Miller. Are you a witch?"

"Why, I never!" I huffed.

Lizzie stopped sobbing and regarded me solemnly. "You're a real witch? My mama says there is no such thing."

Mary nodded vigorously. "Oh, but there are. And there's even a picture of this witch in my fairy-tale book. She lives in

a gingerbread house and eats little children."

"I most certainly do not!" I huffed and puffed. "I live in a farmhouse, just like you."

"And she rides a broomstick," Mary said. In a just world, her nose would have been growing faster than Pinocchio's.

"Cool," Terry said. I glared at him.

"Then why does she have a car?" Lizzie asked.

"My broom is in the shop for repairs, dear," I said, and frowned so deeply I could actually feel the furrows on my

forehead meet.

The girls screamed. I wish I could claim that it was my terrifying visage that prompted their outburst, but someone

with a nose as long as mine cannot take risks with unnecessary lies. The truth is that Terry had parked my brand-new

BMW just in front of the little bridge that spans Slave Creek and we were caught in a flash flood. It was as simple as that.

Whereas one second all four wheels of my car were in contact with the ground, the next second we were bobbing

about like a fishing cork on Miller's Pond when the wind is high. Almost immediately we began bumping into things; young

trees or saplings, I suppose. Maybe the tops of a couple of rocks. The rain was still streaming down too hard to see

anything, and our collective breaths had completely fogged up the windows. Even Susannah, on her hottest dates, had

never had that much privacy.

"Do something!" I screamed at Terry. "do you know how much this car cost?"

Of course there was nothing he could do. The poor man was spinning the steering wheel around like a kid in a toy

car, the kind you feed quarters to in front of the supermarket. My car was no more responsive. "We're going to die!" the

girls wailed in unison.

"Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin," I said resolutely.

It was a poor choice of words, and they wailed louder.

I began to regret that I had not stocked the car with earplugs. What good were three maps of Pennsylvania, two

maps of Ohio and West Virginia, and half a roll of old, stale Certs breath mints in a floating car?

Noah had at least been given sufficient warning. J Despair and prayer go together, Mama always said, and she was

absolutely right. Had my car been a luxury-size model, and my limbs not quite so long, I would have gotten down on my

knees to beg for deliverance. But, the Lord hears the prayers of His faithful even when they're securely strapped in, and in

this case He chose to answer them as well. Abruptly the rain stopped. The ensuing silence was practically deafening.

Unfortunately it didn't last very long.

"Are we dead now?" little Lizzie asked.

"Don't be silly," Mary the sophisticate said. "The car's still turning around in circles. Besides, in Heaven you have

Jesus and the angels, and in Hell you have the Devil. We just have a man with stinky feet who can't drive very well and a

skinny old witch."

I was on the verge of asking the girl to stick out her finger so I could see if she was plump enough to eat when the

spinning, like the rain, stopped abruptly. I discreetly extracted a wad of facial tissue from my less than ample bosom and

wiped the foggy windshield.

Slave Creek was no more, but Slave Lake seemed to be all around us. I wiped a spot on the passenger-side window

and peered through the streaks. We were definitely surrounded by water.

17

"We are perched on top of a rock like Noah's ark on Mount Ararat," I announced. "What do we do now?"

Terry had no tissues to extract from his bosom, and was not in possession of a handkerchief, but he had removed his

T-shirt and was wiping the windows on his side of the car. His view appeared to be much the same as mine.

"I took swimming at UCLA," he said, and began to remove his jeans.

"Put your clothes back on, for Heaven's sake! There are little ones present." Presumably Terry had the same

equipment as Aaron, and if that was indeed the case, the sight of him naked would traumatize the girls for life. And there

is no trusting boxer shorts, believe you me. There is no telling who, or what, is going to stick its little head out that front

vent.

Terry sighed but obediently zipped up. "I was hoping you'd stop me. I flunked that swimming class."

"So what are we going to do?" I wailed, feeling suddenly very helpless.

"We could roll down the window and let a dove out,” Lizzie suggested helpfully. "When he flies back with an olive

branch, that's when we know the water's gone down all the way.

I thanked her for the biblical tip. "Next time you stowaway bring a dove with you," I added kindly.

"Looks like we're screwed," Terry said. I would have slapped him for that kind of talk, had he not immediately realized

his error and obligingly slapped himself.

"Witches cast spells," Mary said thoughtfully. "Can you cast a spell, Mrs. Miller, and make the water dry up?"

"Hocus-pocus," I said. "Mumbo-jumbo. Jambalaya, crawfish pie, and fillet gumbo."

"Wow!" Mary exclaimed. "It's working!" I peered out my window. If the waters were abating, they were doing so at an

infinitesimal rate. I have hair-clogged drains at the inn that drain faster than that.

Who knows how long we would have remained stranded had not Jacob Zook, a Mennonite farmer, appeared on the

scene with his tractor. Jacob has the personality of a hibernating woodchuck, but he is one of the kindest men I have ever

met, and is a wizard at mechanics. At some risk to both limb and tractor, Jacob managed to pull us lose from the rock and

up on the slowly emerging creek bank.

My knees were shaking when I got out of the car, and not because I had just survived a near-death experience,

either. It shames me to say it, but all I could think about was the condition of my car. When I saw that it was unscratched,

except for one small ding on the rear bumper, I literally threw myself on the ground and thanked the Good Lord for His

mercy. Then I gently complained to my Maker about the ding on the bumper. I know, that might sound ungrateful to some,

but when a car costs that much, every dent is like a stab in the heart, every ding a punch in the stomach. On the other

hand, I could have lent my old car to Thelma and Louise and never noticed the difference when I got it back.

Just to be on the safe side, I finished my prayer with a veritable onslaught of thanksgiving. After all, it was possible

the Good Lord had provided the flash flood as a lesson to me on perspective, and I didn't want to risk another lesson.

Perhaps it is paranoid of me, but I have always suspected that there is a troublesome angel up there whispering into

God's ear that Magdalena is a slow learner.

But form must not be confused with function, and there was still the question of whether or not the car was operable.

Jacob, as it turned out, was a genius with machines. He fiddled with the engine until it started, and after a few feats of

magic had that thing purring smoother than a snoozing kitten. Needless to say I thanked him profusely, although I

remained standing. Then Terry thanked him, albeit a little less profusely, and even the girls praised him for his expertise.

The poor man was the color of a pomegranate before we were through.

"Are you the Good Samaritan?" Lizzie asked, causing him to turn an even darker shade.

"Ach, no. Just a farmer."

"Mrs. Miller is a witch," Mary said proudly.

"Just for a few days every month, dear," I corrected her.

Jacob went through several more color changes, but he seemed loath to leave. Even after we were back in my car,

he stood stock still in front of it, as if rooted in the mud. Much too late I noticed that there was an expectant look on his

face.

"Thanks again!" I called gaily.

"Yes, thanks," Terry said and put the car into Drive. The engine raced, but the car wouldn't budge.