“Go for it!” I cried.
“Miss Yoder, you’re weird.” The greasy locks got another workout. “As I was about to say, the fourth time that foreigner called-after he spoke to Mr. Yoder-he starts lecturing me, telling me my phone manners aren’t what they should be. Then he tells me that it was my fault that I got shot in the robbery attempt. My fault! Can you imagine that?”
“I can, but only because I’ve met some folks in my time who are even weirder than I.” Really, the nerve of that whippersnapper calling me weird, and here I always thought she was such a pleasant young woman.
“Hey, you’re not the one who should be bent out of shape. I was just doing my job when those three men came in and pulled out their guns. But that’s not the whole thing!” She paused to glance out the window. “You see, this guy on the phone said that I wasn’t allowed to say one more word about what happened that day to anyone-or else.”
“Or else what?”
“You know.” She made a slicing motion across her soft white throat.
“He said that?”
“Well, maybe not in so many words, but isn’t that what ‘or else’ means?”
I thought back to when Mama used to threaten me with those very same words. Would she have sliced my scrawny tanned throat for not picking up my woolen stockings, or for sticking the hanger through only one side of my dress, or for leaving a soap ring around the edge of the tub, or for answering her nervous calls as slow as a “drugged seven-year itch”? Somehow I don’t think so. However, she would have-and did-warm my bottom with a willow switch or, if one of those wasn’t handy, the palm of her hand.
“What did you say in response?” I asked.
“I hung up. Then I went to see Mr. Yoder, only he said I should stop making things up-if I wanted to keep my job.”
“Now that sounds like an ‘or else’ to me.”
“Huh?”
“Go on, dear.”
“Well, there isn’t much more to tell, because I kept my mouth shut. Even when the police came a third and a fourth time, I just kept giving them the same old answers, even if that did make them kind of pissed-Oops. Sorry, Miss Yoder.”
I scowled obligingly. “Just don’t let it happen again. Foul language is indicative of either a foul brain or poor dental hygiene. Either way, it is not to be tolerated.”
“Forgive me, Miss Yoder, but you’re such a prude.”
“And you’re such a disappointment, dear. You’re not at all like the sweet young thing that used to work behind the counter at First Farmer’s.”
“I guess a bullet wound to the arm will do that-make one rough around the edges, I mean. Or maybe this is the real me. Anyway, you seem to be missing the point.”
I sighed, before slapping my own mouth. I did it gently, of course. She was quite right on that score. It wasn’t the first time that my priggish, obsessive-compulsive need for civilized discourse had led me down meandering paths of judgmental verbiage.
“Please elaborate, dear. Nary a word shall pass these shriveled lips till thou hast completed thy elucidation.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut and let you talk.”
“Yeah, okay. Well, all I’m saying is that Mr. Yoder knows something about the bank robbers that he’s not saying, which is funny, on account of he didn’t see them except for on the surveillance tape. And someone is threatening him if he goes to the police, and now I’m starting to feel the same kind of pressure. So you know what? I accept your offer, Miss Yoder-only you gotta give me medical insurance too.”
“If you stop saying ‘gotta.’ I run a high-end business.”
“Whatever. And I want a uniform.”
Now that was a pleasant surprise. Who would have thought? I hadn’t bothered to suggest it, being positive that she’d reject the whole idea as being too controlling.
“What a great idea, dear. Of course, we wouldn’t want you to dress like a traditional Amish woman, but in something simple and modern-like a waitress uniform.”
“Why not as an Amish woman?”
I smiled wickedly. “Well, our local Amish are amongst the most conservative in the world. Their clothes are all handmade and take hours upon hours to complete. Why, the bonnets are masterpieces, with hundreds of little pleats that require thousands of stitches. Of course, you’d be a huge hit with the guests in that getup, but I could never ask you to dress in something so quaint.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Mmm-I don’t know. I’d have to locate an Amish seamstress who would be willing to sew an outfit for the English-that’s what they call us-and it won’t be easy. And of course, you’ll need two so that you can launder one and still wear the other. That could cost a pretty penny because some of these Amish have really wised up to the ways of the world when it comes to commerce.”
“Please let me do it, Miss Yoder. You can take the uniforms out of my salary. Please.”
“Oh, all right. Why not? But you have to wear the clunky shoes too, and no complaining when the weather gets hot. A good Amish woman is all about yielding to authority. And that rule applies to fake Amish women as well.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal!” Amy cried happily, and would have thrown herself into my arms, had I not even more quickly placed my arms across my bounteous bosom. Five hundred years of inbreeding has rendered me incapable of both giving and receiving hugs without putting a great deal of thought and effort into them. Above all, hugs must be accompanied by a good deal of backslapping, lest they degenerate into dancing.
“Yes, a deal,” I said. I also had an idea. At that point it was just the kernel of a theory, a seed barely sprouted in the rich furrows of my brain. As there were numerous things germinating, and thriving, in there, including a number of weeds, I wasn’t about to get too excited about this one, but still-a cotyledon was better than nothing. “I’ll get started on finding a seamstress first thing tomorrow morning,” I said.
Freni Hostetler, my dear friend and much convoluted (our family tree, not her) kinswoman, is not a morning person. Neither is she particularly an afternoon, evening, or night person. One can usually tell by the way she bangs my pots and pans around if she has had a good night, or perhaps rolled off the side of her bed.
That morning the din in the kitchen sounded like a pitched battle between the ancient Greeks and the Romans, both sides wearing full body armor. If we had been alone, I might have been tempted to ignore the clanking and clanging out of much-deserved spite-for a few minutes at least. After all, my husband, who hails from Manhattan, can sleep through anything, and I mean that literally. Last summer he slept through a thunderstorm so bodacious it woke the dead in three surrounding counties and rattled fillings loose in the teeth of dozens of Herniaites-as we refer to ourselves.
But guests who are paying through the nose expect the luxury of sleeping in a little bit, just as long as those same guests haven’t signed up for milking duties. A full udder, just like a full bladder, can be a painful thing, and emptying it cannot be put off. Knowing, as I did, that not everyone had volunteered to rise with the cows, I scurried into the kitchen to try to calm the storm.
“Freni,” I managed to hiss without a single “S,” in the tradition of many established novelists. Of course, she didn’t hear me, so I shouted through cupped hands, “Freni!”
Two pot lids froze in midair and the stout woman turned slowly. “So, finally, the beauty sleep is over?”
“Yes. At six thirty, I’m as beautiful as I’ll ever need to be. How about you?”
“Ach, we Amish don’t care about such things; you know that.”
“That’s true. But you obviously care a great deal about something else at the moment. What is it?”