Between a Wok and a Hard Place (27 page)

"He said it's a 1988 Ford Festiva," I said, omitting the offending words.

"Ach, a car?" She sounded disappointed.

I think we all were, even Nora. At least there was the possibility of dead bodies to look forward to. I know that sounds

grizzly-like we don't have enough to keep us entertained in Hernia - but hey, that's just human nature. At least I don't

rubberneck when I drive by an accident, like Susannah does. She once got whiplash from trying to do her makeup, drive,

and accident-watch all at the same time. Believe it or not, her insurance company actually paid her benefits until they

discovered that Susannah had caused the accident by changing her blouse. Much to our collective disappointment there

was nothing more to see. Just an old, waterlogged Festiva, covered with slime. As near as we could determine, the

exterior of the car was gray, the interior brown. There was nothing in the glove compartment, in fact, nothing in the car

that didn't come attached from the factory, except for the key. That was in the ignition.

"Maybe the driver tried to swim to shore and drowned," Nora said hopefully.

We all nodded.

"Drag the pound with your tow hook," Dan directed. With nothing to show for their effort except a junked car, the old

coot and his accomplice readily agreed. There would be glory in dredging up a decomposing body, if not vindication. A

corpse would mean that the incident had happened recently, and would explain the mysterious nocturnal lights.

The pin oak tree was not large enough to shade a dozen people, and some of our number were beginning to swelter.

After all, with the exception of Dan Gindlesperger we were all God-fearing folks, which meant we were modestly dressed.

I know the Good Lord gave us brains for a reason, and so I quite expected to see a few people take off their shoes and

socks and wade sedately up to their knees. What I didn't expect was a full-fledged, free-for-all water fight that began just

seconds after Nora slipped on the slime and fell. Witnesses later claimed that Dan started it by tripping her.

"Someone needs to call the police," Freni said, who hadn't budged from her spot in the shade next to me.

"In the absence of Melvin I am the police," I said irritably. Strictly speaking, it wasn't true, of course. But I was

Melvin's "legs," and every bit as capable as he.

"Then do something." I needed no further Urging. I am not bossy, as Susannah claims, but I was gifted with certain

undeniable leadership qualities. And as any good Christian knows, it is a sin to hide one's talents under a bushel basket.

"Get out of that stinking pond this minute," I ordered the drenching duo. "And you," I shouted at Jacob and Pops, who

were still sloshing around the I stranded Festiva, "put some clothes back on, for pity sake."

I hope you won't find this offensive, but there isn't enough cold water in the world to shrink a Miller man down to a

modest size. Several of the women, and at least one of the men, couldn't take their eyes off my bogus father-in-law.

Not only did Aaron Sr. ignore my order, he headed my way clad only in his underpants. "That's not my car,

Magdalena. You've lived across the road from me your entire life, and you know I've never driven a Festiva."

"You're right." To my credit, I refrained from saying so?"

Perhaps Pops was psychic. "So, that good-for-nothing Jacob Zook wants to charge me over two hundred dollars for

pulling that piece of junk out of the pond. And he wasn't going to charge a thing when he thought it was a flying saucer!"

I pried my peepers from Pop's pants and pondered the problem. "Tell him you won't pay him the unhooking charge,

dear. That will save you thirty bucks, and as long as that remains hooked up to Jacob's tractor, that's his problem. He'll

have to haul it away and find a place to dump it."

Pops hemmed, hawed, and pawed at the ground with a bare foot. "I don't have the rest of the money, either. I'm flat

broke."

"I'll take care of it," I heard myself say. Believe me, I wasn't being generous. It was in my own best interest to remove

any stumbling blocks that might prevent Pops from catching his ten-thirty flight.

To protect Pop's modesty from the prying eyes of the curious, I had begun edging away from the throng and closer to

the car. Pops padded along with me.

"Thanks, Magdalena. You're a real peach, you know that? I don't care what Aaron says. It's a funny thing about that

car though - it doesn't have a license plate."

"Most abandoned cars don't. People can be traced through their plates."

"They should stamp the owner's name on the car," he said vehemently. "Then I could have them arrested for

dumping their car in my pond."

I sighed. "Let go of it, Pops. I said I would pay Jacob."

"They could use the same kind of machine they use to stamp the date on milk cartons." I was gazing at the car when

he said that, and the dark splotch on the inside of the windshield jumped out at me first. Pops does not get any credit for

this.

"Is that an inspection sticker?" I asked. He shrugged.

I trotted over. Indeed it was a sticker. It was almost the same green as the pond scum and would have been easy to

overlook initially. But most of the algae had either sloughed off the windshield, or shriveled in the sun. The rectangular

shape of the sticker was now quite distinctive.

"Well, I'll be dippy-doodled," I said.

"What?" Pops asked impatiently. Obviously he doesn't see very well.

"It's an inspection sticker, all right - a Pennsylvania sticker. This vehicle was inspected last month."

"And?"

"You were right, Pops. This isn't some old clunker that someone decided to dump. Just like you said, this car was

hidden in the pond, and recently, too."

"I said that?"

"It was very clever of you to pretend you saw a flying saucer. Too bad we didn't pay attention to you sooner."

Pops beamed. "I was right, wasn't I? I did see something go into the pond."

"As right as rain, Pops. Now you go on home and pack. Remember, we leave for the airport at seven."

He looked suddenly miserable, small and shriveled like the dried algae - well, most of him at any rate. "Aaron made

me say those things, Magdalena. I didn't want to, but he said I owed it to him because I was never much of a father. He

said he wouldn't have gone off to fight in Vietnam if he hadn't been so angry at me."

"It doesn't make a difference, Pops. He's your son. You belong with him, not with me. I'm not" - I gulped, choking

back the shame - " even your legal daughter-in-law."

"But Hernia is my home! I've never even been to Minnesota."

Trust me, there are few things more heartbreaking than to be arguing with an eighty-one-year-old man in his

underwear who is feeling the angst of displacement.

I tried to smile reassuringly. "I'm sure you'll do just fine in Minneapolis, Pops. You're going to make it after all."

I paid Jacob Zook his pound of flesh but had him leave the car on the bank. His precursory dredging of the pond with

a tow hook had yielded no bodies, but that didn't mean there wasn't foul play involved. The Festiva might well have been

stolen. It was clearly a matter for the law to investigate. And by that I don't mean Melvin, but the big boys - the dreaded

DMV.

Please understand that I had every reason to be hot, tired, and crabby by the time I got home. I also had to use my

private facilities in the most urgent way. I most certainly didn't have the patience to deal with rude and intrusive members

of the press.

"Go away," I said to the blonde who was sitting in a car in my driveway in the shade of one of my maples. She

opened her door and got out. She was quite young, barely more than a girl, which meant I probably couldn't outrun her.

"It's not here anyway," I said. "It's across the road by my neighbor's pond."

She pretended to be confused, and did a good job of it. "Are you the owner of the PennDutch Inn?"

"It has nothing to do with me or my inn," I snapped. That was true in its own way, since Pops would be leaving the

inn that evening for the very last time.

She had one of those puttylike faces set with two huge, brown eyes. It was enough to make a puppy jealous.

"I'm here about an alien - "

"I told you, it's over by the pond, and it's crammed full of aliens. All of them slime green."

"What?"

"Beat it, toots. Scram, before I call the cops." She pretended to be scared, which I thought was really rather decent of

her. Perhaps it was something new they were teaching in journalism school these days. So many reporters from the old

school try to stare you down - one gal from the Post-Gazette, a heavy smoker, tried to intimidate me by putting her face

just inches from mine and puffing like a chimney. Fortunately I was wearing a pair of garden-aerating sandals at the time -

you know, the kind with cleats mean enough to make a football player weep with envy. It took only one false step from

me, and Miss Obnoxious from Pittsburgh had to be carried from the yard.

I went inside to take a nice cool shower and change into my traveling clothes. Call me compassionate if you must,

but Pops clearly didn't have two nickels to rub together, and no Bedford cabby was going to give the old geezer a ride to

the airport on the strength of his good looks. So, I would sacrifice my evening and drive him there myself. Besides, that

was the only way I could be sure he actually made it on to the plane. The new Pittsburgh International Airport is a

veritable city of shops, restaurants, and immaculate rest rooms. With just the right doleful look, Pops might well receive

enough dole to live in the airport indefinitely. While this would be no skin off my teeth, it wouldn't skin Aaron's dentures,

either. No, my pseudo-pops-in-law belonged in Minnesota, at his son's side, where he could drive his offspring stark

raving nuts.

True, I wasn't going to step one foot on the plane, but one should always look their best when they venture more than

five miles from their home community. This is especially true of airports. Just ask Susannah. She went to the airport

without having bathed for a week and accidentally got swept up in a party of British tourists. She was halfway to London

before she could convince anyone that she was an American. It was only when Shnookums popped his head out of the

nether reaches of her bosom and whined for his supper that she was able to make her case. No self-respecting Britisher

would be caught dead with a dog that ugly.

After having worn Dr. Brack's brace all day, it actually felt good to climb back in it after my shower. While it was off I

felt like a willow sapling that had broken lose from its stake. Perhaps it was because I was tired, emotionally and

physically, but I felt like I needed that brace to prop me up. Since my bogus wedding I had lied on Aaron Jr. far too much

for support, but painful as that was, it was good to have it stop.

I would make a special effort to thank the braggart doctor for insisting I try his contraption. A brace is a not easier to

care for than a man, and in general less aggravating. It doesn't leave dirty clothes lying around )n the floor and it doesn't

snore. What else could one possibly want from a constant companion?

Freni interrupted my reverie by rapping on door. The woman has knuckles of steel.

"You have a visitor, Magdalena. In the parlor."

"Who?"

Please forgive me for saying this, but for just a second I hoped it was Aaron Jr., come crawling on his knees. I

wouldn't have taken him back, mind you. I lust wanted to see him beg.

Freni shrugged. "An English woman. She didn't give me her name."

"Young? Old? Blond? Brunette?"

"Ach," she squawked, "they all look the same."

"You don't know who she is and you let her in?"

"She said it was a matter of life or death."

" And you believed her?"

I stormed out to the parlor, Freni on my heels. Just as I feared, it was the reporter with the soulful eyes. She was

sitting in Grandma Yoder's favorite rocker, but she popped to her feet.