The third-tier cutoff date is usually given as 1860, the fourth is 1900, and the last, which barely counts for anything, is 1946. After World War II the book on new arrivals was closed; marriage to a triple-A gem did nothing to change an immigrant’s status. As one local wag described it, “Putting a cubic zirconia and a diamond in the same ring doesn’t make the CZ a diamond.” To be sure, though, the gentlefolk of Hernia will never mention this distinction to your face, for with the exception of the occasional cold-blooded killer, they shy away from confrontation.
“Okay,” I finally said, “subject dropped. But I need to have a serious discussion with the both of you.”
“Ach!” Somehow Freni managed to squeeze out from between me and the stove. It must have been instinct that propelled her to Gabe’s side. He might not be blood, but he was the only other possible ally in the room.
My dearly beloved was on his feet, a look of genuine concern written all over his classically handsome features. “What is it, hon?”
“Sit back down, dear, because you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”
12
But there would be no sitting for the man who had cared enough about me to finally sever his mother’s apron strings, and a full month before our son was born too. Although it had been a grizzly operation, the only victim appeared to be Ida. She now lived alone in what was formerly Gabe’s house, across from us on Hertzler Road. In the intervening weeks my husband seemed to have transferred most, if not all, of his concern onto me. Yes, it did get a little wearing to have him follow me around like a puppy all day, but a good Magdalena would just shut her mouth and count her blessings. At least I didn’t have to assume all of Ida’s former duties, such as cut his meat for him at dinner-well, not unless it was exceptionally tough.
“How did his checkup go?” he demanded. “Tell me everything the doctor said; don’t leave anything out. I knew I should have driven you. It’s only been a month; it’s far too early for you to be driving yourself. I don’t even know how you even could be sitting now.”
“Month, shmonth,” I said. “In Africa the women give birth in the fields, and then go right back to work.”
Freni shook her head. “That is too soon. We Amish women wait at least one day before we help the men to bale the hay.”
“You’re kidding,” Gabe said. “Aren’t you?”
“She is kidding,” I said. “Plus she composed a rhyming couplet. The next thing we’ll hear from her is the pitter-patter of iambic pentameter.”
“Ach,” Freni squawked. “How you talk! I am too old for such a thing to happen.”
Gabe smiled. “As for the African women thing, that sounds more like missionary lore than fact. But back to you, Magdalena; what did the doctor say? How did Little Jacob’s one-month checkup go? How are you doing?”
“Uh-you see, that’s why you should be sitting down, dear. I didn’t exactly go to the doctor, except for maybe sort of.”
Gabe stared. “What does didn’t exactly mean, exactly?”
“She did not go at all,” Freni said, crossing her stubby arms in front of her ample bosom, “because the appointment is in two days.”
“ Magdalena, is that true?”
“But I was very close to the doctor’s office,” I said. “I went to the bank.”
“Bank? What for?”
“To put the screws to George Hooley; he’s a member of my church.”
“I repeat my question: What for?”
“To investigate the privates,” Freni said, in the ultimate act of betrayal.
“I am not a private investigator, merely an undeputized post-partum woman in charge of a postmortem event.”
“Mag-da-leen-a!” When Gabe does his ventriloquist bit, spitting my name out without moving his lips, it’s time to get to the point.
“Remember Minerva J. Jay, the woman who died while eating pancakes at my church?”
Gabe cocked his head. To tell the truth, he looked maddeningly handsome.
“Hmm,” he said. “Wasn’t that the day my wife gave birth on the floor of Sam Yoder’s Filthy Corner Market?”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, dear, sarcasm really does become you. But yes, that was the day, and even though the paper said that Miss Jay died of undisclosed circumstances, they were disclosed to me, and-”
“You’re working on another murder case?”
“But the suspects are all Mennonites, so they can’t be so bad.”
“Huafa mischt,” Freni muttered.
“What?” Frankly, I couldn’t believe my ears.
“You heard her,” Gabe roared. “Horse manure! They may all be Mennonites, but one of them is a killer. Am I right?”
“Agreed. But the weapon of choice was pharmaceuticals. Just as long as I don’t ingest anything during my investigation, I shall be as fine as frogs’ hair.” By the way, I owe that colorful description to my southern friend Abigail Timberlake.
“This one is meshugah,” Freni said in a louder voice. Meshugah means crazy in Yiddish, not Amish. Unfortunately my kinswoman learned this word from my mother-in-law, who usually applies it to me.
“Et tu Brute,” I said, deeply hurt.
“Ach, such a terrible thing you say!” She blinked behind her grease-and-flour-covered spectacles. “What did you say?”
“That you’re a traitor, Freni. I thought you were my friend.”
“Yah, but this I do for your good.”
“And you, Gabriel Jerome Rosen,” I said through clenched teeth, “are being totally unfair to me. All I am doing is helping out a young man who is totally overwhelmed and, frankly, unprepared to be the sole police officer in this community.”
“But you’re the mayor; you hired him. Don’t get me wrong, Mags, I think he’s a nice young man, but every time you help him you’re putting your life on the line. And now you have more than just yourself and me to think of; you’ve got our little man here. Do you honestly want our son to grow up without a mother?”
There are times when arguing with the Babester is like trying to stop global warming by scattering a tray of ice cubes on the lawn. “I’m already committed to this case,” I said. “But just as soon as I’ve-we’ve-arrested a suspect, I’m turning in my nonexistent badge and hanging up my metaphorical spurs.”
“What does this mean?” Freni demanded.
“It means she’s feeling guilty,” the Babester said. “This is her last case.”
Freni nodded, an action that caused her entire body to shake. “Yah, we shall see.”
“So what will you do about the baby?” Gabe said. “Express your milk?”
I’d heard somewhere that breast pumps were not entirely comfortable, that they were not unlike the electric milk pumps Mose uses on my two dairy cows, Matilda Two and Prairie Queen. Perhaps they didn’t hurt at all. I didn’t care, because I wasn’t about to find out. The times I’d spent with Little Jacob at my breast had been the most fulfilling hours of my life, bar none.
“I’m taking him with me,” I said.
“The Hades you are,” Gabe said. Of course he didn’t use the Greek word.
“I know that you’re his father and that you’re concerned,” I said, “but I’m the one who carried him for almost nine months inside me and then had to expel him through my pelvic region without an epidural. For now, my vote trumps yours.”
“Yah,” Freni said, and nodded even more vigorously than before.
Yes, it was unfair of me to play the birth card-on second thought, no, it wasn’t. Like I’d said, I wasn’t taking him to a play date with Eliot Ness; I was merely going to question upstanding members of my church. Believe me, I would never, ever intentionally use my son for nefarious purposes, but as long as he was along for the ride, would it be so bad if the oochy-goochy-goo factor kept the pharmaceutical killer a little off guard? I think not. (Please bear in mind that I’m the head deaconess in my church; ergo, my opinions should count for something.)