The Crepes of Wrath (16 page)

“Thanks. Where is it?”

“It’s sitting outside. Hey, which reminds me, I’ve got to go. My sweetykins is waiting for me in the squad car. I got to drive
that
over here.” She giggled. “It was the first time I ever sat up front.”

“Well, tell Mel—”

But Susannah had already skipped out of the kitchen, waving her dress in front of her like a flag.

I turned to face the inevitable music from Freni. She, however, was standing as rigid as an ice sculpture. Her lips appeared to have been hermetically sealed.

“I
didn’t
give her my blessing,” I said.

Freni blinked, but said nothing.

“Look, I know ever since Mama died, you’ve been a surrogate mother to both of us. We appreciate that more than you’ll ever know, and we love you dearly, but like I told Susannah, you have to let us make our own mistakes.”

I waited eons for Freni to say something, but she just stood there, blinking, looking for all the world like a squat lighthouse. She wasn’t even breathing hard, and I began to fear she’d had some sort of a stroke.

“Say
something,
Freni. Say anything. Even an angry snort will do.”

“I quit.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I quit. Q-i-t. Quit.”

“Just because of that stupid little dress?”

Freni began to move. Her stubby arms chopped at the air like a karate instructor. “I know when I am not appreciated, Magdalena. You don’t have to hit me over the head with an ax.”

“You mean a hammer, dear, and you’ve got it all wrong. I appreciate you immensely. I couldn’t do without you.”

Freni untied and removed the cooking apron she wore over her normal apron, which was really just a part of her outfit. She threw the garment on the table.

“So, now you will make supper for this bunch of English, yah?”

“No.”

“This meat cake for the fat ones’ anniversary is in the refrigerator.” She lapsed into Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Grummbiere und Rubli—”

“I don’t care about potatoes and carrots,” I wailed. “I care about you.”

Freni ignored me, and continued to mumble the entire menu. Everything was basically ready, she said. I should remember to turn the oven from low heat to off after things were served, and if the more sensible English wanted something besides meat for dessert, there were two lattice-top cherry pies sitting on the counter. They should watch out for pits, however. The English were famous for their weak teeth.

There was no use arguing with the woman. She has quit eighty-seven times in the past. After a good night’s sleep and a run-in with her daughter-in-law, she’d be coming back, wagging her tail behind her.

“You want a ride, dear?”

“I will walk through the woods.”

“Suit yourself, dear,” I said with perhaps just the barest hint of smugness in my voice.

“Ach! Do not think for a moment that I will be back like last time. I am an old woman, Magdalena. These insults I can get from my daughter-in-law. There is no need to cook for the English anymore.”

“Have a nice walk,” I said.

The kitchen door slammed behind her.

When I was satisfied she wouldn’t return, I wrote a note of instructions for my guests and taped it to the
icebox. For a mere ten dollars extra, I informed them, they could get their own supper. The privilege of washing up afterward would cost them fifteen, but when they got back to their respective cities, they could brag to their friends that they had lived an authentic Amish-Mennonite lifestyle.

Then I made myself three large cheese and tomato sandwiches (the bologna had all been consumed at lunch by you know who), poured myself a glass of fresh milk, and retired to my quarters, where I had several good books in progress.

In just a few hours I would leave my inner sanctum and crash an Amish party. While I would be missing out on the all-meat anniversary cake, I had a feeling, deep in my bones, that mine would still be a very entertaining evening.

At quarter to ten I sneaked from my room. It is the only bedroom on the ground floor and sits at the back of the house, between the kitchen and the parlor. The spring on the kitchen screen door is rusty and squeaks, and if there were any guests still in the dining room—perhaps trying their hand at quilting—they would hear me, so that exit was not an option. Neither was the front door, because to reach it I had to pass first through the parlor, and then the lobby. The only safe way to leave undetected was my bedroom window.

I am a thoughtful woman, and as such had thought to hide a step stool in the foundation plantings under my window. It was a cloudy night, with no visible stars or moon, and I had chosen my outfit accordingly. Navy blue dress, black cotton stockings, ubiquitous black brogans (I own several pairs), and a black shawl tied over my head to hide my pale face and light brown hair.

Little Freni, bless her hairy hide, was sound asleep on my pillow. A clean little box, a fresh bowl of water, and a handful of dry food awaited her. If only, I thought, I had someone to look out for me like that.

Much earlier in the evening I had hung a
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on my door. Now I locked it from the inside and
turned off my reading light. With that one flick of a switch, both my room and the great outdoors appeared to be as dark as Aaron’s heart the day he said “I do” when he had already done it with the woman up in Minnesota.

Backing out of my window cautiously, I felt for the stool with my right foot. Alas, it seemed not to be there. I could feel the top of a Japanese yew bush, and of course the wall, but nothing in between.

“What in tarnation?” I said. And then shocked at the swear word which had escaped my almost virgin lips, I begged the Good Lord to forgive me. “It’s my guests’ fault, you know.”

“What’s my fault?”

“Oh, not
your
fault, Lord. It’s the fault of my English guests.”

“Whew, then it’s not my fault, because I don’t have a drop of English blood in me.”

That
most certainly was not the Good Lord speaking. In my haste to see who it was, I slipped and fell backward out of the window and on to the flat sheared top of the yew bush. I suppose there are worse things upon which to fall—a bed of nails, shards of glass, jagged edge up, Mark Anthony’s sword—but a yew is not comfortable, let me assure you of that. And it is also extremely difficult to extricate oneself from a large shrub without inflicting additional damage to one’s person.

“Here, let me help you.” A strong male hand grabbed my right one and began pulling.

“Wait a minute,” I snapped, “my foot is caught on something.”

At that, two strong male hands lay hold of diverse parts of my person, and with one strong yank, and a few yelps from yours truly, I was sprung from the trap. The person behind the hands set me gently on the ground.

Dark as it was, I could not identify him by his features until he smiled. The unnaturally white crescent that appeared suddenly like a light switched on could only belong to Archibald Murray.

“You do this often, Miss Yoder?”

Taking advantage of the blackness, I stuck out my tongue. My teeth, a pleasing shade of beige, would not give me away.

“Only on alternate Tuesdays.”

“I believe it’s still Monday.”

“I’m trying to beat the crowd.”

He laughed. “We filmed a scene just like this on my show,
Two Girls, a Guy, and a Calzone,
and I was the one who had to fall into the bush. But that bush was only a stage prop, and when the girls tried to get me out of the bush, it came right along with me. Ron—that’s the director—thought that was really funny and left the scene in. It was our highest-ranking episode.”

“That’s nice, dear, but do you mind telling me why you were skulking around in front of my window? And was it you, per chance, who stole my step stool?”

“I wasn’t skulking, Miss Yoder. I came outside for a smoke. You have this strict no-smoking policy inside.”

“I’m well aware of my rules. Now answer my other question. Did you take my stool?”

“Stool?” He laughed again. “So you really were planning to sneak out of your own house?”

“You never know when religious persecution will rear its ugly head. Perhaps I was practicing my escape.”

Please note that I said “perhaps.” It isn’t a lie unless you declare something in no uncertain terms. And anyway, even then the Lord will make exceptions if it’s for a good cause.

“Maybe I can help you. I read for the lead role in a remake of
The Great Escape
.”

“But you didn’t get the part?”

“I turned them down. They wanted me to crawl through an actual tunnel.” The white crescent became a blur and I knew he was shuddering. “I would have gotten dirt in my hair. And spiders.”

“Well, I don’t plan to crawl through any tunnels. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I reached into my handbag, which I
had not dropped, even in the bush, and extracted a small flashlight. I switched it on.

“You certainly come prepared.”

I ignored his observation and shone the light along the foundation of my inn. There were no step stools behind any of the bushes. Had Freni found the stool and returned it to its rightful place in the pantry? Or could someone possibly have been out to thwart me? And could that someone be Archibald?

“I didn’t take your stool, Miss Yoder,” he said, as if reading my mind.

I shone the light at Archibald, not at his face, of course, but some inches lower. Imagine my surprise when I found myself staring at a well-muscled, quite naked chest. I made a quick sweep from chest to feet. He was wearing shorts, thank heavens, but the rest of him was as naked as a baby jay bird. I clicked the light off. Better to brood in the dark than lust in the light.

“Well,
someone
took it.” I shone the light along the wall again, and of course finding nothing, turned to walk away.

“Where are you going, Miss Yoder?”

“That’s none of your business, dear.”

“Would you mind if I came with you?”

I stopped, but didn’t turn. “Yes, I would mind. And isn’t that a silly thing to ask? You have no idea where I’m going, or what I plan to do.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. I just want to come.”

“What if I’m going to church?”

“Wow, what kind of church meets this time of the night?”

“Maybe mine does.”

“That’s cool. So, can I come?”

“Not dressed like that, dear.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, it’s real nice out tonight, and I’ve never been too fond of clothes.”

“Are you a nudist?” I asked in alarm. Heaven forfend he would divest himself of his shorts as well. Seeing the full Monty might be more than my ticker could take,
and besides the batteries in my flashlight were old, and might die before I was ready to shut it off.

He laughed again. “Would that be so bad?”

“It’s a sin, of course. That’s why the Good Lord invented clothes.”

“He did?”

“Certainly. He sewed animal skins together for Adam and Eve.”

“But didn’t He create them naked in the first place?”

I sighed. “I don’t have time to argue theology, Mr. Murray.”

“Just take me with you and I promise to shut up.”

“You sound desperate.”

“I am.”

Short hairs bristled at the nape of my scrawny neck. “You sound like you don’t like it here.”

“It isn’t that exactly. I mean, this place is really great if that’s your bag.”

“And it isn’t yours?”

“I thought it would be. Hollywood’s crazy and just about anywhere I go in the country I get mobbed. Here nobody even knows who I am. I gotta admit, it’s kinda disappointing.”

“You poor dear.”

No doubt I need to work on my sarcasm skills. “So?” he asked, brightening. “Does this mean you’ll let me ride along? Like I said, I don’t really care where. Church is fine—hey, there wouldn’t happen to be a video poker parlor nearby, would there?”

“Get dressed and we’ll see.”

“Great!” The crescent disappeared and I could hear him trotting off into the black night. The boy must have been weaned on carrot juice.

I turned my flashlight back on and made a beeline toward my car.

“As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” the Bible says. This is true, of course, but sometimes I reap far more than I’ve
sown. That night I had a veritable bumper crop. I may have misled Archibald when I sent him back into the house to put more clothes on, but Melvin out and out lied to me.

New tires indeed! Sure, the tires were new to my car, but they’d traveled more miles than Lodema Schrock’s tongue, and I’d seen eggs with more tread than what was left on these three. On the plus side, they
were
round—basically—and almost the same size as my fourth tire. If I drove slowly, and steered clear of the Keims’ driveway, I might make it as far as the old Berkey barn. But judging from the faint hiss I heard, I stood a good chance of having to bum a ride home with the Hamptons. They would, I’m sure, be as pleased as champagne punch to see my smiling face again.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said and climbed into my sinfully red BMW. I will confess that I am braver when driving on four good tires, and as a consequence, it took me longer to get to the old Berkey barn than I had anticipated. The dilapidated white structure—even cows are not permitted to be sinners in Hernia—sits well back from the highway, and is virtually hidden these days by a pasture that has been allowed to return to woods. By the time I arrived, there were already eight buggies and three automobiles parked behind the old structure, carefully hidden from even the most prying of eyes. In order to avoid detection by the teenagers upon whom I was spying, I had to park in an abandoned cornfield a half mile away.

It is no easy feat to walk across an overgrown field on a night as dark as Aaron Miller’s heart. Thank heavens for Hostetler ankles. Mama was a Hostetler, you see, and every one on her side of the family—male and female alike, fat or thin—had ankles as big around as their waists. Susannah has them too, which is why, I’m sure, she wears those floor-length swirls of fabric. After all, there isn’t an ankle bracelet that has been made that will encircle one of these babies, and belts don’t count.
But I’m not complaining, mind you. If it weren’t for ankles as sturdy as marble pedestals, I most probably would have twisted one or both on corn stubble and ended up a temporary invalid. Instead, I was able to make good time over very rough ground. I didn’t even have to use my flashlight, although I did turn it on for a few seconds every now and then, just to check the ground for snakes.

When I got close to the barn, I was afraid the horses might smell me and whinny. Of all God’s creatures, they are the only ones high-strung enough to qualify as Yoders (surely God is not responsible for Chihuahuas!), and as such make good sentries. But the breeze was blowing toward me, and I got to smell them instead. Having just hosted a group of French tourists, I can honestly say there are worse odors.

I entered the barn via the milking room. It had a concrete floor, which I took as a sign that somebody, somewhere, was praying for me. Nonetheless, I crept carefully across the floor and peered into the great vault of the barn. There in the middle of the vast space, sprawled over bales of moldy hay, were nineteen Amish kids. Fourteen boys and five girls.

I gasped, and then clamped a hand over my mouth. So many! And so young. Elam Keim, who was indeed there, was probably the oldest.

Catching a deep, but almost silent breath, I studied the group more closely. I recognized seven of the boys: Elam Keim, of course, his younger brother Seth, Jacob Lehman, Christian Schmucker, Daniel Livengood, Gideon Fisher, and John Eash. Barbara Troyer was the only girl whose name I knew. There were no English present.

I can’t describe the scene as a party, although most of my parties have been no livelier. Like I said, everyone was just lying there. Some even appeared to be asleep. A radio, the kind our young people refer to as a boom box, played softly in the middle of the room, and not
only did I recognize the music—I use that term loosely—but I knew the recording artist. The Booty Hunter had once been a guest at my inn, but back in the days when he was a famous gospel singer.