Tamar Myers: Batter off Dead

“In that case, since everyone’s already assumed a pious pose, let’s really pray. Who’d like to go first?” My words had the same apparent effect on them as spraying Raid does on a pile of roaches; they fanned out in all directions, although to be perfectly honest, very few flipped on their backs and kicked their legs in the air.

I could hear Karen sigh loudly. It sounded like relief.

“What’s that all about, dear?”

“I know this is going to sound awful, Miss Yoder, but I hate public, extemporaneous prayer: it’s the stilted prayer language that really sets my teeth on edge.”

“You mean like when folks use words like thee and thine?”

“Exactly. That’s King James English, not biblical English. There was no such language as English when the Bible was first written. But you know, what really sets my teeth on edge is just.”

“The word just? What’s wrong with that?”

“For some reason it gets inserted into every unscripted prayer. Listen for it, Miss Yoder; you won’t be able to miss it. Someone will get started praying, and the next thing you know, they’ll say something like ‘Lord, we just ask that you heal our sister Debra,’ or ‘Lord, we just ask that you give us the necessary wisdom to deal with this problem.’ What does that mean? And if you ask them why they’ve inserted the word just into their prayers, they’ll look at you like you’re crazy. I guess they just don’t hear just anymore.”

“Well, I for one don’t do it!”

“Ah, but you do: I’ve heard you. Virtually every born-again Christian does it.”

“But not me,” I wailed. “You’re putting a word into my mouth that doesn’t belong there.”

“Excuse me, Miss Yoder, the crowd is edging closer again, so are we going to pray or not?”

With considerable effort, I managed to get to my feet. “I’m still looking for a volunteer to pray,” I said. “And you can’t use the word just. Anyone who does use it gets to make a one-hundred-dollar donation to the new roof fund. So think of it as a chance to give, folks.”

The crowd murmured loudly as they scattered to the far corners of the fellowship hall-well, except for the blessed Karen Imhoff and the stubborn Amygdaline Schrock. At any rate, that left only the four of us, and since I was the wealthiest and, some say, the orneriest, I decided to give my own challenge a try. Alas, whether by intention or not, I failed miserably; all that matters is that the brotherhood had a thousand more clams in their coffers when I was through addressing the Almighty to mark the occasion of Minerva J. Jay’s passing.

Hernia’s only law enforcement officer arrived just seconds after my resounding amen, and I immediately filled him in. Police Chief Chris Ackerman is only in his midtwenties and so good-looking that women have been known to commit minor crimes just so they could have the pleasure of being thrown into his jail overnight. Jaywalking, loitering, even solicitation citations initially went through the roof. Gradually, however, as the people of Hernia learned that the Good Lord, in His wisdom, had chosen Chris to bat for the other team, this much-needed source of income dried up.

Once, believe it or not, in more prosperous times, we had a two-person police department, and on occasion even that was not enough. At first glance Hernia may not seem like a den of iniquity, but the Devil is just as hard at work here as he is anywhere else. Thank heaven, then, that murder follows me around like odor follows a troop of prepubescent boys, because over the years it has allowed me to become well steeped in the workings of the criminal mind. I say this without hubris. Indeed, I get very little credit-certainly no monetary reward-for solving the brutal deaths of others, and I am often subjected to great danger.

Why, then, one might legitimately ask, do I involve myself in such a dangerous pastime? Do I experience the same satisfaction one might feel if they’ve taken on the task of solving a particularly complicated puzzle? Absolutely not; the solutions to some murders are absurdly simple. Do I feel especially brave when I’m confronting a killer who has a gun digging into my well-formed ribs? Frankly, with my shapely knees knocking so hard, it’s difficult to tell. Once I even soiled-uh, well, never you mind. But I will confess that another time I foiled a madman by jumping down into the pit of our six-seater outhouse.

“Miss Yoder!” Young Chris shook me with a good deal of force. “Miss Yoder, you’re not going to faint again, are you?”

When you wake up and smell the coffee, you can only hope it’s something better than what we serve at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. “I’m as fine as frog hair, dear. I was lost in thought; it’s still pretty much virgin territory.”

“I was saying that we should go back to my office and talk.”

“Talk? About what? I told you everything.”

“Yes, but that was off the record, and in the presence of Miss Schrock.”

“Why, I never!” Amygdaline was panting with rage. “Listen here, young man, I pay your salary, just as much as Magdalena does, so I have the same right to be privy to this conversation as does she.”

“But you don’t,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Amygdarling, this is just a guesstimate, mind you, but I’m pretty sure that I pay at least ten times more in taxes than you do, which is neither here nor there, since I am Chief Ackerman’s boss, as well as his sidekick, although at this stage of the game, I’m not the one doing most of the kicking.”

“Chief! Did you hear what Magdalena called me?”

No doubt Chris’s laugh was an attempt to smooth things over. “Amygdarling?”

“But I’m not her darling! The woman gives me the creeps. She’s a self-admitted adulteress, you know.”

“Inadvertent,” I hissed.

“Hey, no fair; you can’t hiss without an S.”

“So?”

The chief of police grabbed my arm and steered me up the front steps, into the foyer, and then out to his cruiser. “Hernia is nothing like the quiet little Mennonite town I imagined it would be,” he said, “and you are nothing like the typical Mennonite woman, are you?”

“Heaven help us if that were so, dear.”

Hernia looks nothing like Lancaster, which lies at the other end of the state. The bucolic pastures of Lancaster are reminiscent of England, albeit one peopled with Amish folks, whereas our tiny plots are squeezed between mountain ridges and highways so twisted that the mere sight of them is enough to induce colic-without the bu. Or worse. Movie stars-mainly guests staying at the PennDutch Inn-who just can’t seem to lose those extra ten pounds for that coveted role have their limo drivers race back and forth along Hertzler Road ad nauseam. In fact, this has happened so much lately that some local wag has dubbed that stretch Hurlzler Road -not that it’s caught on.

At any rate, the town itself is almost equally divided between old historic homes and houses that are totally devoid of character. Fortunately, most of the latter are to be found clustered in one subdivision with the nonsensical name of Foxcroft. We have one main street, which is sensibly named just that, and the aforementioned four businesses. Our community gathering place is up on top of Stucky Ridge, where there is both a picnic grounds and a cemetery. Both places have lovely views.

I already have too many strikes against me to admit to being proud of Hernia, but I really can’t imagine a finer place to raise a child. She-or he-can fish or swim in Miller’s Pond in the summer; ice skate on it in the winter; attempt to dam up Slave Creek in the spring; go on hayrides and pick apples in the fall; and play in haylofts and count stars any time of the year. And if she is a very naughty child, which mine won’t be, she can taunt the Amish as they drive by in their buggies, or fling “road apples” at the tourists and then run and hide. But she better run very fast, or else her mama will catch her, and then little Magdalena won’t be able to sit down properly for a week.