Tamar Myers: Batter off Dead

Since the 1830s we have lived in Hernia, Pennsylvania, which, by the way, is located nowhere near Lancaster. We are located in the south-central part of the state, just about a horseshoe toss north of wild and woolly Maryland. There are only four businesses in this town of less than 2,500 souls: Miller ’s Feed Store, the blacksmith shop (run by One-Eyed John), Sam Yoder ’s Corner Market (where the words fresh produce are an oxymoron), and last, but far from least, the PennDutch Inn.

The inn has been very successful, thanks to an early-on review from Condor Nest Travel magazine. Throw in a handful of murders, some torrid Hollywood romances, some embarrassing Washington disclosures, and a quick mention of a Japanese tourist who may have been stuck in the teensy-weensy elevator for some months after her last desperate cries were heard (it really was not my fault, and I do plan to get her out someday), and it couldn’t help but be a moneymaker. In fact, so much moola did the PennDutch pull in, that she is now temporarily closed while I count it all and attend to the growing of my male child. In the meantime, the staff-Freni Hostetler-remains on duty to see that I, as well as my husband and our fourteen-year-old pseudo-stepdaughter, eat well.

“ Magdalena!”

I started into reality. “Uh-what?”

Amygdaline Schrock is Hernia’s second busiest body, after my best friend, Agnes Mishler. She had a firm grip on my dress sleeve, which meant I wasn’t going to enjoy any pancakes until I heard her out.

“I thought you might be interested in knowing that a certain so-and-so is exchanging saliva with a certain who-does-she-think-she-is behind the church.”

“Please, dear, I do plan to eat.”

“Well, she’s your friend; I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Still-You don’t mean Agnes, do you?”

“Well, I don’t mean Santa Claus.”

“But she’s engaged to Harmon, and he lives in one of the square states and isn’t due to visit for another three months, when he comes down for their wedding. Are you absolutely sure?”

“I saw it myself, Magdalena, and this wasn’t any outsider named Harmon: this was our very own Kenneth Kuhnberger.”

“Get out of town!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s just an expression my sister, Susannah, uses. It’s not to be taken literally-although I do know of a real estate agent who lives in Sarasota. She specializes in selling homes down there to Mennonite retirees.”

“And what makes you think I’m old enough to retire?”

“The fact that you used to babysit for me when I was a little girl, and you were already a senior in high school by then. On the other hand, it’s possible that you were held back six or seven grades.”

“Tell me, Magdalena, is it my name you don’t like?”

Actually, Eh-mig-dah-lin is a nice strong name, reminiscent of my own. The fact that it refers to a cyanogenetic substance found in the seeds of apricots and bitter almonds only adds to its charm. What the woman doesn’t seem to get is that she has the personality of a wolverine.

“No, you tell me something,” I said. “Why do you think I would want to hear bad news about a dear friend?”

“Uh-so that you could do something about it?”

“Like what? I’m not her mother, for goodness’ sake.”

“Well”-she snorted-“you can’t blame a gal for trying.” With that, her talons released my sleeve and she stomped off to find another victim to demoralize.

“Save me a stack,” I called pleasantly to my crew. “And I want six pieces of bacon-remember, I’m eating for two. I’ll be right back.”

And indeed I was, for the breakfast was being held in our fellowship hall, which is in the basement of the church, and it took me only two minutes to cut through the kitchen and up the back cement steps. As it was a cold and windy March day, no one in their right mind was up there kissing, and neither were Agnes and Kenneth Kuhnberger. But even though I’d been gone such a short time, a lot seemed to have happened during my absence.

None of the servers were at their stations. In fact, just about everybody in Hernia seemed to be crowded behind the serving tables-which, by the way, is an absolute no-no.

“What the ding, dang, dong is going on?” I hollered. “Sorry,” I mumbled to the little one on board. “I’ll try to clean up the language.”

Amygdaline Schrock broke loose from the jumble of folks and took up her post at my elbow again. When she tried to grab my sleeve, I brushed her hand away in a firm but gentle manner.

“You got your wish, Magdalena: Minerva J. Jay is dead.”

“What?”

“The second you left, she sank to the floor like an imploding building.”

“Has anyone called 911?”

“Elmer Troyer did. He called both the dispatch center in Bedford, plus our very own chief of police.”

I craned my neck for a better look but could see only a sea of backs. Wide backs.

“What makes you think she’s dead? Does anyone here know CPR?”

“Karen Imhoff is a trauma nurse at Bedford County Memorial. She can’t find a pulse.”

“But I was gone only a minute,” I wailed.

Amygdaline consulted an enormous watch that somehow managed to look both officious and cheap at the same time. “You were gone six minutes and nineteen seconds.”

“I was? Oops, I forgot about detouring for a potty break on the way back, and wouldn’t you know there was a line, and of course I just had to get behind Thelma Neubrander, who went on, and on, and on, and-”

“Just like you?”

I sighed. “If the shoe fits, but it better be a size eleven, and with my feet as swollen as they are-”

“ Magdalena, quit stalling.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re blathering like on a drunken writer, whereas the Magdalena I thought I knew would take charge.”

“She would?”

“You bet your bottom dollar, and from what I understand, that’s rather a huge fortune.”

“Forsooth, although it still wouldn’t be enough to win if the Donald played trump.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Nothing; it was just some card-playing humor-which I don’t do, mind you, except for rook and old maid, on account of real cards can lead to sin-”

“You’re stalling again,” she hissed. This time specks of her spittle peppered my face. They may have been minuscule, but I could feel them long after they’d landed.

Clearly, I had been goaded beyond human endurance. Perhaps, then, I can be forgiven for grabbing the lids of two empty metal serving trays and clanging them together like a pair of giant cymbals. That got everyone’s attention, including the man-child’s. The little fella kicked me so hard that I grunted in pain.

As a matter of fact, he kicked me twice. It was like he was using my abdominal wall as a place to push off from, so he could swim away to somewhere quiet and sane.

“Hey, take it easy,” I whispered. “I would never kick you. And just in case you’re looking for a way out, the portal’s not due to open for another two weeks. So as they say in New Joisey, fuggedaboutit.”

The murmuring of the crowd informed me that I was already losing their attention. I had to act fast.

“Stand back,” I roared. “That means everybody except for Karen Imhoff and the victim-uh, I mean Minerva J. Jay.”

My words were like a magic wand. Or perhaps it was the genuine faux-pewter trays; maybe they thought I’d box their ears with them. At any rate, the throng shrank back, forming a circle, into which yours truly stepped.

I knelt beside Karen, who was holding Minerva’s head in her lap. “Is she really dead?” I whispered.

The throng leaned in, as if bowing their heads for prayer. “Let’s just say that if I was at the hospital right now, I’d look for a doctor to call it.”