“Ma, get off her case,” Gabe said, much to my surprise. “I’m a doctor; I think I can handle it.”
“Besides,” I said, perhaps a wee bit cruelly, “how do you think Little Jacob came to be?”
“Funny that you should bring up that subject,” Alison said, “because I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”
“Oy veys meer,”
I said just as Little Jacob let out an enormous burp.
17
Alison merely wanted to know if there were parallels to be drawn between the mating cows and what humans did behind closed doors. She’d already concluded as much; she just wanted an adult to confirm it. My intent was to tell her that a loving, committed relationship was a lot different than livestock breeding, but I made the mistake of beginning my explanation with the word
yes
, which sent her gagging from the room. The next morning, as I drove her to school, she declared that she would never, ever have sex, not even if she lived to be a million years old, and if at some point she should decide she wanted a child, she would adopt one just like we did. Silently, I thanked the Good Lord for the amorous bull, and wisely, I said nothing.
Usually Alison rides the bus, which stops at the end of our driveway, but on this particular day I had an unscheduled parent-teacher meeting to attend. The victim of my visit was Merle Waggler, a soft, sloppy, but perpetually smiling young man who teaches Alison eighth-grade math and earth science. Merle is a lifelong member of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church and has been a member of the brotherhood ever since he married about ten years ago. Most important, he was near the top of my suspect list.
It may seem odd to save one of my biggest suspects for last, but I’d been out of practice for the length of Little Jacob’s gestation, and I needed to get my size elevens wet again before jumping back in up to my neck. Besides, I’ve always found Merle’s perpetual smile a bit off-putting.
I
know it’s a smile because he’s a Christian and attends my church; if I was a stranger, however, I would be sorely tempted to interpret his upturned lips as a smirk. Maybe it’s because what goes on in his eyes simply doesn’t match what comes out of his mouth on a good many occasions.
Alison used to adore Mr. Waggler until he started reading, in a loud voice, the class’s math-test scores. He said that he did it to reward the good students and encourage the middling ones, but Alison believes, as do I, that he wasn’t above humiliating the poor students. I don’t think he did it to be mean (Alison does), but to shame his pupils into studying harder. I base my interpretation of his motive on the fact that shame was a huge motivator for me while I was in school. Not only was I “Yoder with the Odor,” but because of one D on a spelling test (I was out with the flu the week the words were assigned), I was dubbed Dumbdalena for an entire semester—and
that
was by a teacher: Mrs. Regier.
At any rate, I found Merle Waggler in the teachers’ lounge, in his usual sloppy attire, having a cup of coffee and chatting with a very pretty—and unnaturally blond—student teacher from over by Somerset. I was hoping that my unexpected appearance would put the fear of Magdalena in Merle, because he is a good ten years younger than me, if not more, but he merely smiled. Or smirked, depending on one’s interpretation.
“Mmm,” he intoned, as per his usual way of beginning to speak. “Let me guess: she’s held up a gas station, and you’re on your way to bail her out of jail. You want me to know that I shouldn’t delay class on her account.”
The student teacher twittered while I raged silently—well, for all of five seconds. “
Excuse
me? Was that supposed to be funny, Merle?”
“Mmm, Magdalena, you must admit that your—ah, how shall I put this—protégée? Anyway, she has all the makings of a juvenile delinquent.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This from a teacher who wore sweatshirts to school? Never mind that when he was in high school—I forget which year—Merle and a buddy were arrested for spray painting near obscenities on the bridge over Slave Creek. The only reason the judge dismissed their cases was because the boys had been clever enough to employ euphemisms instead of outright vulgar expressions. Personally, I find the use of innuendo just as offensive.
“She is not a juvenile delinquent!” I ejaculated angrily.
“Mmm, I didn’t say she was; I said she had the
makings
of one. Really, Magdalena, you do jump to conclusions.”
“At least I get my exercise—oops, that wasn’t very nice of me. Sorry.”
“Mmm, I’ll take it as you meant it. So, what do you want?”
No beating around the bush for me. “Did you like Minerva J. Jay?”
“Did I
what
?”
“You dropped the
mmms
.”
“Huh?” He looked at me like I was the crazy woman I’ve sometimes been made out to be.
“You do say it a lot,” the student teacher said, and then, realizing that she’d placed a fledgling foot in her mouth, made a sudden exit from the room.
“Back to Minerva, dear,” I said. “Did she get on your last nerva?”
“You’re so droll, Magdalena, that sometimes I forget to laugh. And yes, she did get on my nerves; she got on everyone’s nerves.
Didn’t
she? Can you honestly name one person in this town who liked her?”
“Reverend Richard Nixon—he of the church of thirty-two names. He probably liked her; he likes everybody.”
“Yeah? Well, he doesn’t like Roman Catholics; he told me that once himself.”
“Just because of their religion?”
“Mmm, you got it. Anyway, now that your little survey is finished, I need to be getting to my homeroom; the bell is about to ring.”
“Bells, shmells; the kids can wait. Let them throw paper wads like we used to do. You see, Merle, this isn’t a survey. I’m investigating Minerva’s murder, and you’re one of the suspects.”
Yes, the Germans came up with the word
schadenfreude
, but one must admit that it describes a very universal condition: that of taking pleasure in the misfortune of others—although a great many pious and/or enlightened folk will hotly deny they have ever felt this way. What I’m getting at is that Merle’s smirk dried up like a rain puddle on a cloudless August day, as his tiny eyes flickered from side to side. After all, there were several other teachers in the lounge, and my accusation had not been delivered in a whisper.
“For Pete’s sake,” he hissed, “keep your voice down.”
“All right. And there’s no need to get your jockeys in a jumble if you cooperate.”
“Do I even have a choice?”
“No.”
The bell rang. As the other staff members filed out, you can be sure that every single one of them was staring at us. Several of them even collided with one another, which, in my opinion, served them right. I know, that’s not the way a good Christian should be thinking, but I resolved to pray about my attitude just as soon as I had a moment to myself.
“Okay,” Merle mumbled when the door finally closed, “but do you mind if we sit down first?”
“Not at all, dear.”
Alas, I’d spoken too soon. Much to my surprise, I discovered that some teachers can be incredibly messy. Someone had been eating a pastry coated in powdered sugar, and that someone had apparently dropped said pastry on my chair. I only noticed this when I was adjusting my skirt,
after
I’d been seated. However, I doubt that this was the same clumsy person who had wiped peanut butter on the armrest; again a fact that I discovered
after
it had been transferred to my dress sleeves. I sighed dramatically as a way to let out steam.
“Hey, don’t blame that on me too, Magdalena. I always eat over there at the table.”
“I was merely emoting, dear—as is my wont under the circumstances. Now, just so we’re clear: I expect your full cooperation in this investigation.”
“By what authority do you act, Magdalena? Your Honor the mayor? Pretend policewoman? Head deaconess of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church? Richest woman in Hernia?”
“Why, you impudent little—well, man. See what you almost made me do? I don’t normally call people names, you know.”
“Mmm, but you do try to intimidate them; you can’t deny that.”
“When the shoe fits, dear, I wear it. And yes, this sensible black brogan with the eighteen-inch lace fits very well. That said, Chief Chris Ackerman, of the Hernia Police Department, has asked me to investigate this case on his behalf.”
“Is that even legal?”
“Well, it certainly isn’t illegal for me to ask questions. You are, of course, free to refuse to answer. Be fairly warned, however, that by doing so, you will cast further suspicion on yourself.”
“You’re basically saying that I have no choice but to submit to your grilling.”
“Like a weenie on a green willow branch.”
“That would be roasting.”
“Not the way I do it. Now, spill; I want to know all about your run-ins with our town’s least-liked personality.”
“Mmm, well, I’d have to say that up until this morning, you and I have managed to avoid any direct confrontations.”
“Very funny. Now, be a dear and hurry—wait just one Mennonite minute! You weren’t kidding, were you?”
“Face it, Magdalena, if it wasn’t for that pile of money you’ve made from fleecing tourists at your inn, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“I don’t fleece these folks! These are very wealthy people who expect to pay through the nose for poor service and a good helping of attitude. After all, almost all of them enjoy traveling in Europe, and a good percentage of them adore Paris. And if you’re insinuating that the ALPO—Amish Lifestyle Plan Option—that I offer these sophisticated travelers has somehow affected my interpersonal relationships, you’re dead wrong. I have oodles of friends and a handsome husband to prove it.”
“Mmm, whatever.”
“You’re trying to get my goat, aren’t you? It’s a ploy to distract me. Well, I have news for you. It’s not going to work.”
He jumped to his feet, and as he did so, his trademark smirk returned to his round, doughy face. “I’ve changed my mind; I won’t be cooperating after all.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You might intimidate the others who volunteered to make pancakes that morning, but I’m
not
going to let you do that to me. So take your twenty questions, Magdalena, and put them—”
“How rude! I demand that you sit back down right now.”
He started to walk away but stopped when he was halfway to the door. “Mmm, and one more thing—”
“If you’re going to apologize, dear, then come back and do it right.”
“Ha, you really are a comedienne. The next time you speak to me, it better be with a court order. Is that clear?”
I jumped to my size elevens, and had I been a Methodist or a Baptist, I might even have tackled Merle Waggler. But I was a mere Mennonite, a pacifist by breeding and disposition. When words failed me, I was as helpless as an Easter chick in the hands of a two-year-old. Still, even though he refused to cooperate with the interrogation, he couldn’t very well ignore a mother ’s plea to put an end to the anti-Semitic taunts hurled at her child.
“You can ignore me, but you can’t ignore the bullying that goes on in this school!”
I’m sure that Merle Waggler broke several laws of physics by turning on a dime. “
What
did you say?”
“Other children have been calling her ‘Jew girl.’ ”
“Isn’t she? I never see her in church with you.”
“No, she isn’t Jewish. Her adoptive father—well, soon to be, at any rate—is, but not her.”
“Magdalena, what you’ve described is not bullying. Bullying is being called ‘Pillsbury doughboy’ and having your head stuck in the toilet while the other boys take turns flushing it. Bullying is being the last one chosen in gym,
every
single time, and being called ‘girlie’ because you have some breast development. And when we played dodgeball—we don’t have mixed gym classes in Hernia, as you well know—all the boys ganged up on me, even my supposed friends. And where was the teacher? Standing right there with a wicked old grin on his face.”
“And where are
you
when Alison gets teased?”
“Look, Magdalena, it’s hardly the same. Those people have brought it on themselves.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this, and from a member of my church.”
“Well, it’s true. They’re the ones who rejected Jesus, not us.”
“For your information, not even my mother-in-law was around two thousand years ago.”
“Perhaps you should read Matthew 27:25. The Jews who demanded Christ’s crucifixion volunteered that His blood should be on their heads and on the heads of their children.”
“Ah, but it says nothing about the children agreeing to that arrangement. But speaking of blood, do you enjoy a good blood sausage?”
“
Blutwurst?
Yes, of course; my mother was a German Mennonite.”
“Ah, then you may do well to memorize Leviticus 17:10—nope, I take that back. According to that verse the Good Lord has already set His face against you, and cut you off from among His people.”
“Mmm, perhaps some Sunday school teachers need to read their Bibles more, Magdalena. Are you forgetting that in the Book of Acts the apostle Peter has a vision in which the Lord tells him that all creatures are now—how shall I put this?—acceptable for human consumption.”
“Well, I for one would certainly be cautious about questioning a voice heard in Peter ’s trance. On the other hand, in Leviticus 3:17, the Lord Himself, who has been speaking
directly
to Moses all along, has the following to say: ‘This shall be a
perpetual
statute
throughout your generations
in all your dwellings: you shall eat neither fat nor blood.’ The Good Lord is omniscient, Merle, and He could see all the way down the line to the apostle Peter, yet He didn’t put an escape clause in that verse, did he?”
“That’s because the verse you just quoted applies to Jews only.”