There are few words in my vocabulary to describe the sensation that George’s leather chair ignited in my exhausted, post-delivery body. I honestly thought I would never be privileged to experience such pure physical enjoyment of this earthly shell ever again. It started as a tingle that began to build gradually, and then grew stronger and stronger, ever rapidly, like a river in flood stage, a thousand streams emptying into an accelerating current, heading toward a dam that would surely burst-I leaped to my feet.
“Get behind me, Satan!”
George blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“That chair is of the Devil. How could you, George?”
“Uh-”
“On the other hand, what’s done is done, right? If the sin’s already been committed, so to speak-not that one actually occurred, mind you-but if it’s been, then what would be the harm in lingering longer in the gentle embrace of such a manly chair, yet one whose manhood does not interfere with the guilty pleasure of one’s sweet surrender?”
“That’s because it’s a chair, Magdalena, not a man.”
“Indeed.” I sniffed. “But admittedly not just any chair. By the way, how much did it cost?”
“Thirty-five hundred dollars.”
I calculated the amount it cost to keep the Babester (an aspiring mystery novelist) and his mother fed and clothed in the style to which they’d been accustomed in New York. That came pretty ding-dong close to $3,500 a month-every month-whereas the chair was a onetime purchase.
“Does it come in other colors?”
“Besides black, there’s dark brown, golden brown, reddish brown, deep tan, pale tan, and pink.”
“Hmm.”
“But you didn’t come here to furniture shop, Magdalena. My guess is that you’re here to grill me like a weenie. Isn’t that the quaint expression you’re so fond of using?”
“Sarcasm does not become you, George. And why on earth would you think that?”
He locked his well-manicured fingers together and twiddled his thumbs as he mocked me further. “Let’s see… could it possibly be because you’re playing detective again, and because I was one of those serving John Q. Public at Minerva J. Jay’s untimely, but most probably deserved, demise?”
“Why, George Hooley, what kind of mouth is that for a good Mennonite boy to possess? ‘Deserved demise’ indeed!” I glowered at him only briefly, so as not to encourage permanent lines on my forehead. “Such a cold-blooded comment is not befitting someone of your professional ranking, not to mention that you are on the fast track to become a deacon in our church.”
“I am? Since when?”
“Since-well, you do know that the Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t you, George?”
He sighed and leaned back in his own comfortable chair. “And none quite as mysterious as you. Am I right? Although frankly, Magdalena, you’re as transparent as a CT scan.”
“Vous êtes très drôle,” I said, exhausting my high school French. “But I’ll overlook your insults if you’ll elaborate on why it is that you believe our poor Minerva got what was coming to her.”
When fastidious little bankers snort, it’s not unlike kittens sneezing. “Our poor Minerva? Name one person in the entire county who was sad to hear that she died.”
“Uh-Wanda Hemphopple, out at the Sausage Barn. I wouldn’t be surprised if on slow days, Minerva accounted for almost half of her business.”
“That was a business relationship. Name someone else.”
“So what if I can’t? It doesn’t matter; God loves us all. He even notices when a sparrow falls.”
“The sparrow probably caught Minerva looking at it.”
“George!” I said sharply, surprising even myself. “What did Minerva ever do to you that you should hate her so much?”
He stared at his desk miserably, then at each of his walls in turn, while I waited patiently. Finally he could stand it no longer.
“Can you keep a secret, Magdalena?”
“Of course, dear.” I pretended to lock my lips and throw away the key. It was a gesture I’d learned from Alison.
“You need to swear to it.”
“Don’t be silly; we’re both Mennonites. Just like the Bible says, our yeas should be yeas, and our nays should be nays. But speaking of neighs, what did one horse say to the other when-”
“ Magdalena! This is no time for riddles. I need you to give me your word as a woman of the cloth that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”
A woman of the cloth? The poor man’s gears must have broken a sprocket or two. It was my sister, Susannah, who swaddled herself in fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric, and for whom a trip to Material Girl in Bedford was more of an inducement to good behavior than the promise of eternity spent in Heaven would ever be. I know we’re not supposed to judge, but if it weren’t for the fact that we Christians are justified by faith, and not deeds, my only sibling would be on the fast track to you-know-where in a very large handbasket lined with an entire bolt of brightly colored polyester.
“You’re thinking of Susannah,” I said slowly, whilst moving my lips in an exaggerated fashion, to make sure he got the message.
“No, I’m not. Your sister’s a divorced strumpet and a lapsed Presbyterian to boot. I’m referring to you. In the absence of a regular minister, you are our de facto leader. That, Magdalena Portulaca Yoder Rosen, or however you choose to style your name, makes you a woman of the cloth in my book, just as surely as if you were an Episcopal priest, or a Reform or Conservative Jewish rabbi.”
It is said that the high tide floats all boats-well, let me tell you that flattery does the same thing. I don’t think there is a person alive whose ego can’t be inflated at least a little by the right words, delivered by the right sycophant, at the right time. Yes, on an intellectual level I knew that I could not be compared to a rabbi or a priest, seeing as how I lacked (at least) another six years of education, but to have a respected banker compare me to them got my dinghy to bobbing like a fishing cork on Miller’s Pond come spring.
I patted my bun to make sure the bit of cloth we refer to as a prayer cap was still in place. “Do you really think so?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve studied very little theology. What’s the use in raising questions, I always say, if one isn’t prepared to accept the answers-not that I couldn’t come up with a good answer if I really tried. Besides, one can always trot out the tried but true ‘When we get to Heaven someday the Good Lord will explain everything.’ ”
George nodded solemnly. “Yes. And my first question will be: why did You create someone as frustrating as Magdalena?”
I was stunned. “Moi?”
“Admit it, Magdalena; you’d rather do anything than get down to brass tacks.”
“Brass tacks hurt.”
“Enough of this nonsense. Do you, or do you not, agree to keep the following information absolutely confidential on the grounds that you are, in effect, my clergy substitute?”
Clergy substitute was almost as good as priest or rabbi, perhaps even better: I would have a title, but none of the responsibilities. In the world of religious nomenclature, I might even be described as a sugar-free lay minister.
“I agree,” I said, perhaps with a wee bit too much enthusiasm.
George left his desk and came around to stand over me. I suppose that his intent was to express his earnestness, but his expression simultaneously brought to mind President Richard Nixon and Ichabod Crane.
“She was blackmailing me,” he whispered.
“Over what?”
He leaned so close, I could smell a MenthoLyptus lozenge on his breath. “It’s a good thing you’re sitting down, Magdalena,” he whispered, “because you’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you.”
10