The Crepes of Wrath (10 page)

My spiritual director shrugged silently. Believe me, on a Sunday morning he is never at a loss for words.

“Come on, Reverend Schrock, out with it!”

“B-because,” he stammered, “she thought the driver was you.”

“She
what
?” My blood pressure soared, and if it hadn’t been for the restraining hand of Dr. Hanson, I might have shot off across the lawn in a zig-zag fashion like an untied helium-filled balloon.

“Magdalena,” the Reverend said quickly, “I’m sure you know that Lodema has her issues with you and—”

“Issues!” I roared.

“Come,” Dr. Hanson said in a firm voice and pulled me toward the car. She was remarkably strong for a woman her age.

“Magdalena, please don’t be upset,” the Reverend said. He was too embarrassed to look at me now.

“We’ll see how many issues I put into the offering plate,” I yelled over my shoulder.

I know. It was unfair of me to take my rage out on the messenger. But if you can’t yell at your pastor with
impunity, then who can you holler at? Besides, there are some days when a gal just has to let it blow.

To her credit, Dr. Hanson refrained from chiding me. In fact, when I told her the first thing I wanted to do was to find a phone, she reached into a pocket and pulled out a doohickey barely the size of one of her cherished walnuts.

“Here, use this,” she said.

I gazed at the gizmo, while grazing three mailboxes and a gazebo. “It’s one of those cell phones, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You mean you’ve never used one before?”

“They’re the work of the devil,” I said with conviction. I’ve been seeing them around Hernia and Bedford for years, but had never been within touching distance. They were an evil invention, after all. In Hernia, at least, there have been more car accidents caused by chatty drivers than drunken ones.

Dr. Hanson laughed pleasantly. “Magdalena, it’s only a small telephone—without wires. If you want, I’ll even dial the number for you, so you don’t have to take your eyes off the road.”

I clipped a fourth mailbox while pondering the situation. Then because I was already feeling so much guilt that a little more wouldn’t even be noticed, I told her to dial.

“Lead me not into temptation!” I wailed as she handed me the phone.

Joseph Mast picked up on the fifth ring. He sounded sleepy.

“Hello?”

“Joe, this is Magdalena. Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but it’s all right. I had a bad night.”

“Sorry. Look, I just have a quick question. Did Gertrude Troyer ever pay your wife a visit.”

“Who?”

“She’s Amish. Really mousy-looking herself, but married to a really hot—I mean, a good-looking man.”

He took so long to answer, I was afraid he’d gone back to sleep. I’ve been known to fall asleep in the bathroom, so I know how that goes.

“Joe, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. I was just thinking. An Amish woman came to see her the morning she died. I was back in the shop when I saw her pull up in her buggy. I thought it was Catherine Keim at first—they were friends, you know, despite everything. Anyway, I got a closer look and it definitely wasn’t Catherine. She’s a real knockout, and this one, like you said, was kind of plain.”

“Catherine may be exotic,” I said as I swerved to miss a bantam rooster crossing the road, “but she isn’t a beauty. At any rate, what did Gertrude Troyer want?”

“Beats me. My Elizabeth rarely got visitors and I wasn’t going to intrude on this one.”

“So you didn’t speak to her at all?”

“That’s right. Look, Magdalena, like I said, I had a rough night.”

“Just one more thing! How long did Gertrude stay?”

“I didn’t keep track. But long enough to eat craps with my Lizzie.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Craps. You know, French pancakes.”

“Ah, you must mean crepes!”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. They had craps and coffee together. The Amish woman brought the craps.”

“Well, how nice of her.” I was going to stop judging people by their looks. “Did they save any for you?”

“Yeah, one or two.”

“Were they good?” Most Amish women are excellent cooks, and remarkably adventurous. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit to learn that Gertrude had a stack of cookbooks. If only Lizzie had.

“I didn’t taste them,” Joseph said.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m diabetic. Those things were covered with powdered sugar.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you couldn’t resist on account of—”

“No one can cook like my Lizzie,” he said defensively.

“No one,” I agreed.

He hung up.

My feelings weren’t hurt. Nothing was going to get me down that day. I’d been shrunk and proclaimed sane. What more could one possibly want out of life?

1 cup white wine

2 cups chicken broth

2 celery stalks, cut into chunks

3 green onions, sliced

2 bay leaves

10 peppercorns

¹
⁄2 pound mushrooms, sliced

2 pounds scallops, cut in half

4 tablespoons butter

5 tablespoons flour

³
⁄4 cup milk

2 egg yolks, slightly beaten

¹
⁄2 cup cream

1 teaspoon lemon juice

dash salt

1
¹
⁄2 cup grated Swiss cheese, divided

Combine wine, broth, celery chunks, green onions, bay leaves, and peppercorns. Bring to a boil and simmer for 15 minutes. Then pour through a strainer into a 12- inch skillet. Discard vegetables. Return broth to a simmer and add mushrooms and scallops; simmer for about 7 minutes. Remove mushrooms and scallops and boil until only 1 cup remains.

In a saucepan, melt the butter and stir in the flour.
Cook over medium heat for a few minutes, stirring constantly. Stir in the milk and 1 cup of broth; continue stirring until sauce boils and thickens.

In a bowl, beat the egg yolks and add mixture to the saucepan with the hot broth. Bring to a boil and then remove from heat; stir in the lemon juice and salt. Drain the scallops and mushrooms; discard the liquid. Add about half of the sauce and
³
⁄4 cup of cheese to the mushrooms and scallops to make the filling.

Fill 12 crepes with the filling; fold into desired shape and place seam side down in a large, greased baking dish. Pour remaining sauce over the crepes and sprinkle with remaining cheese. Bake at 400 degrees for about 10 minutes.

Dr. Hanson went in the front door, but I chose the back. Freni saw me float smugly into the kitchen. She was peeling carrots and potatoes, no doubt the beginnings of one of her world-famous stews.

“Ach, such an attitude. Are you shrunk?”

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

“And?”

“I’m normal!” I cried jubilantly.

“Yah? What exactly did the head doctor do?”

“She asked me a few questions about sex and religion, showed me a couple of pictures of walnuts, and that was it. I’m as sane as you and the next person—well, possibly saner than you.”

“Ach! Walnuts? From this she knows you are not crazy?”

“Go figure.”

“Yah, go figure. The English are a mystery.” She scraped the last strip of peel from a long slender carrot and ran the root under the faucet.

“Speaking of mysteries, Freni, yesterday you intimated that those newcomers, the Hamptons, might be a good place to start if I was looking for a source for the drugs that killed Lizzie Mast. Were you basing that on hearsay, intuition, or what?”

Freni tapped her head with the vegetable peeler. “Such fancy words, Magdalena. Maybe you should ask the doctor to shrink your tongue.”

“Freni!” I said sharply.

She stared for a moment behind smudged lenses and then shrugged. “Yah, I spoke too strong. Maybe my tongue should shrink too.”

“Is something wrong, dear?”

She looked desperately away, found a potato, and flailed at it with the peeler. The spud had already been peeled, however, and Freni’s deep strokes produced thick strips of white potato flesh, leading me to conclude that it had been an angry Amish woman in Paris who invented the French fry.

“Freni, out with it!”

She set the spud and peeler down, removed her glasses, and rubbed her eyes with her left sleeve. Then she saw me watching and turned away.

“It’s Barbara,” she said.

“Your daughter-in-law?”

“Ach, what other Barbara is there?”

“Well, there’s Barbara Stucky, Barbara Augsberger, Barbara Stutzman, Barbara Miller, Barbara—”

“Yah, my Barbara! Ach, I mean Jonathan’s Barbara!”

“Your son’s wife. Who just so happens to be the mother of your grandchildren.”

“Yah, but not anymore.”

“What do you mean by
that
? You can’t take the babies away from their mother, Freni, no matter how much you may want to.”

Freni clamped a pudgy hand over her forehead, to further prevent me from reading her mind. “I would never do such a thing! It is she who takes them from me.”

“How so?”

“She takes them to Iowa.” Freni pronounced the four-letter word bitterly. “To their other grandmother.”

I gasped. “For how long?”

Freni shrugged.

“You didn’t ask?”

“Ach, maybe for three weeks. Something like that.”

“That’s
all
? Three measly weeks? And this has your knickers in a knot?”

“So maybe she won’t bring them back.”

“Is Jonathan going?”

Freni shook her head no. “Thank God, yah?”

“Yah. If Jonathan is staying here, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. He loves those kids more than I love—uh—well—”

“Money?”

I shrugged. “Whatever. How is Barbara getting to Iowa and back?”

She stabbed the air with her peeler. “Those English.”

“Which English?”

“You know, the ones you just asked about, the ones who bought the Berkey farm.”

“You mean the Hamptons? The man with the perfume and the old woman with the young face?”

Freni smiled. “Yah.”

“How did Barbara meet them?”

“Miller’s Feed Store, how else? She heard them talking about this trip they are going to take. Some place called the Big Canyon. A hole in the ground, that’s all it is. And tourists drive all the way past Iowa to see it.”

“
Way
past,” I said. “And it’s called the Grand Canyon.”

“Yah, that’s what I said. So, anyway, these English will take Barbara and my three little ones to Iowa on their way to see the big hole, and pick her up on the way back. You think I should trust these people, Magdalena?”

“Do you have a choice? And who knows,” I said wickedly, “maybe Barbara will decide to leave the little ones with her parents and go see the big hole herself. You know how clumsy she is. With any luck she’ll fall in.”

“Yah? You think so?”

“Freni!”

“Ach, you lead me into temptation.”

“Yes, but you come along so willingly.”

Freni grabbed another carrot, and shredded it before my eyes. The guests were going to have to settle for soup instead of stew.

“But, Freni, didn’t you say they might be drug dealers?”

“Ach, they’re English, aren’t they?”

“You can’t just stereotype people like that, Freni,” I sighed.

“Tell you what,” I said, “I’ve been meaning to speak to the Hamptons anyway. Why don’t I pop on over there now? I’ll ask them to take really good care of your grandbabies and to make sure they bring them home on schedule.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Of course, dear. And if Barbara does go with them to the Big—I mean the Grand Canyon—and stands near the edge, I’ll tell them to give her a little shove.”

Freni stifled a laugh with her apron. “But how will you pop, Magdalena, when you don’t have a car?”

“Of course I do. It’s right—oh my gracious, I completely forgot! It’s still at the Keims’ house.”

“Yah, but maybe you can borrow one of the guests’ cars.”

“You can borrow mine,” a male voice said just off my left shoulder.

I whirled. Archibald Murray was standing behind me, not an arm’s length away. How he had managed to sneak up on me, what with my creaky kitchen floor, was beyond me.

“Goodness!” I said and clapped both hands to my bony chest, narrowly missing Little Freni. The poor mite screeched in terror, turned this way and that in her confusion, and even changed cups twice. In fact, it took her several minutes to settle down.

Archibald watched, utterly fascinated, as the contours of my meager bosom rose and fell. “Man,” he finally said, “that’s really something. I’ve heard of hearts pounding in chests before, but I’ve never seen anything like that. Maybe you should go see a doctor, Miss Yoder.”

Freni twittered at the sink.

“That wasn’t my heart, dear,” I said patiently. “That’s my kitten. Now, about this car you offered. . . .”

“Yeah, no problem.” He tossed me the keys to his rental car. “It isn’t anywhere as nice as your BMW, but it will get you where you’re going.” There was maybe just a hint of question to his statement.

“I’m off on an errand of mercy,” I said, and winked at Freni.

She actually giggled, perhaps a first. “Tell them just a little shove.”

Archibald grinned and ran tanned fingers through bleached hair. His eyes were, of course, hidden behind the ubiquitous shades, but I knew he was dying to get in on our private joke.

“You had to be there,” I said, and then excused myself to call the garage.

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 (
dis
asters we now called them) were not a distinct species after all, but a stunted form of the common aster (
Chrysopsis mariana
). 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).