"Butter Safe Than Sorry" - читать интересную книгу автора (Myers Tamar)

6

The three couples from the Garden State arrived together, but in separate cars, driving caravan style. I happened to be in the dining room at the time, which has a good view of the driveway, but I didn’t hear them until several of the doors slammed and the last of the folks had already piled out. By then it was already too late to see who had traveled in which car.

They say that couples grow to resemble each other over the years. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but for what it’s worth, Gabe still had his hair, teeth, and just one chin, and folks often said that we made a good couple. But the couples that spilled out of the expensive Jersey vehicles were an odd mix of shapes, sizes and ages, none of which seemed to go together.

Nonetheless, a hostess has to do what a hostess has to do. I snatched a starched white apron from a hook behind the check-in desk on my way to greet them, tied it on with practiced hands, and arranged my lips in a fair approximation of a warm, inviting smile.

“Gut Marriye,” I said in honest-to-goodness Pennsylvania Dutch, but from then on, I faked it with a made- up accent. “Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn. Deed yousen pipple hobben a gut treep?”

“Yah, yah, eet vas yoost vonderful! Zee cat’s payamas, yah?” A woman who looked very much like Barbara Bush during her White House years stepped regally toward me. She could easily have been the mother-or grandmother-of anyone there.

I gulped. “Uh, ma’am,” I whispered, “I don’t really speak Pennsylvania Dutch.”

“Neither do I. But listen, you twit. If this bunch catches on that you’re a fake, they’ll take their money elsewhere. We may look like a motley crew, but we came here for a genuine slice of Americana -just like it said in your brochure.” She pulled one of my brochures from her Hermès bag.

There are times when one is taken aback, and there are times that one wishes to take back, but I had been in the biz too long for either of those scenarios to come into play that day. I straightened my apron, felt to see if my prayer cap was still securely in place, and then licked my pale, unadorned lips.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said loudly and clearly in my plain old American accent, “welcome to the PennDutch Inn. I am Magdalena Yoder, the proprietress, and I am a genuine Mennonite whose grandparents were Amish, as were their ancestors before them. I will let you shake my hand for a dollar.”

There were no takers.

I plunged on. “The inn in which you will be staying for the coming week is an exact reproduction of the Mennonite farmhouse in which I was born.” I raised my hand to silence some murmurs. “The original was destroyed by a tornado eight years ago. And before you get your bloomers in a bunch, I assure you that when I say ‘exact,’ that’s what I mean. The current inn was built on the original foundation and everything was faithfully reproduced, including the urine stains in Great Uncle Leonard’s bedroom-may he rest in peace.

“How many of you wish to experience the Amish Lifestyle Plan Option-or ALPO, as I affectionately call it? For a measly one hundred bucks more a day you get to make your own beds, clean your own rooms, and the pièce de résistance-muck out the barn.”

“Hey,” a carrot-topped man hollered, and practically in my face, “I thought it was only sixty-five dollars extra.”

“It was, dear, but then I got to thinking: the more that one pays for something, the more it is that one is likely to appreciate it. It is my heartfelt desire that you treasure your stay here.”

“Bull droppings,” the white-haired woman in pearls growled.

I smiled beatifically. “Any takers for that?”

“I’m in,” said a perky young blonde in a tight sweater and a ponytail. She was a wee little thing, whose head barely breached my bosom.

But thanks to example, one by one they all agreed to ALPO-all except the redhead and his wife. He soon identified himself as Carl Zambezi from Rockaway, New Jersey. His wife, by the way, was the Barbara Bush look-alike, and her name was Olivia.

“Carl dyes his hair and uses Botox,” she said right in front of him, “but still, look at his profile, doesn’t that face deserve to be on Mount Rushmore?”

“Well, I-”

“So, where’s the bellhop? You don’t expect Carl to fetch the bags from our car, do you? He has a bad back. Carl, go ahead and tell this woman how you hurt your back. Yeah, I know she’s one of them Amish”-she pronounced it “aye- mish”-“but she’s no spring chicken either, I can tell, so I know she can take it.”

“Let me guess,” I said, “he had to pick you up.” Although she had broad shoulders and an uncommonly large head, she wasn’t substantially overweight, so my gentle ribbing was not untoward.

Olivia stared at me with eyes as dark as cinders. Her lips quivered. Meanwhile Carl’s pale blue eyes focused on the ceiling. Suddenly they both exploded into gales of laughter.

It was laughter every bit as infectious as the bubonic plague. Soon I was laughing too, and slapping my knees like it was mosquito season. Before I knew it, the other guests, who had hung back a bit while their elders checked in, were laughing and carrying on as well.

Finally Olivia wiped the tears from her swollen eyes. “I’ll give you that one,” she said. She glanced at my impossibly steep stairs.

“Is that the only way up?”

“Indeed.”

“And you don’t have an elevator because…” She let her voice trail off as her expression took over.

“Oh, we have one, all right. But it’s a teensy-weensy one and it’s stuck between floors, and it may, or may not, contain the body of a dead Japanese tourist.”

“You’re serious?”

“Never more so. Now, mind you, I don’t often lose tourists, but this particular one was extremely hard to keep track of, and had she not been quite so unpleasant, I might have made more of an effort to get an elevator repairman out here.”

“What about the police?”

“What about them? For all intents and purposes, I am she. So say hello to me, if that is she with whom you wish to speak; otherwise kindly proceed to collect your luggage and make your way to your room so that I may wait on these other kind folks.”

Olivia stalked out of the inn, staring at me the entire time. That meant she had to swivel her head as if it were atop a lazy Susan. Her husband, Carl, who was all of two inches taller than she was, followed behind her like a faithful puppy dog.

“It takes all kinds,” Mama used to say. I can’t remember if she was referring to me, or some of the strange people in our church community. Anyway, she was absolutely right. The next couple to check in was the Nyles-George and Barbie. George was a tall, deeply tanned man with a strong nose, a drooping mustache, and a wild thatch of curly brown hair. A woodsman, perhaps-although the rimless glasses he wore spoke to another side of his character. Barbie was a classic beauty with enormous green eyes and a heart-shaped face. Since she wore her long dark hair pulled back in a modest French twist, I took an immediate liking to this young gal in her early thirties.

I had to call deeply upon my reserve of Christian charity, however, when checking in Peewee and Tiny Timms. For one thing, Peewee-whose real name was Reginald-was no peewee. I’ve owned cows that weighed less than he did-okay, maybe not many, and they were on the sickly side-but you get the picture. He was huge. He also wore a very curious bowl-shaped black wig that came down almost to his bristling black eyebrows. With all that excess body fat, plus the synthetic hair, Peewee sweated copiously. To say that the sweat streamed down his face is no exaggeration. Wherever the poor man stood for even a few seconds, a puddle formed.

Tiny, his wife, would have qualified for petite, had it not been for the enormous pair of man-made brassiere fillers that jutted out from an otherwise flat chest. Believe you me: the transformation in topography was plumb amazing; I was reminded of Squaw Peak rising above Sun Valley in the greater Phoenix area. But as sweaty and uncomfortable- looking as Peewee Timms was, Tiny, on the other hand, presented herself as the epitome of good-natured cheer.

“Ooh, I just love how you’ve decorated this place. It’s so-so-well, so authentic- looking. Isn’t it, Pee? Take that spinning wheel over there. I know It’s not for real and all, but-”

“But it is.”

“No way!”

“Way.”

“Isn’t she just too much?” Tiny said. She grinned happily.

“She certainly is,” Peewee said. The mere effort of speaking precipitated streams of perspiration that coursed down his jowls.

“You’ll be staying in room four. Room five hasn’t been cleaned by its last occupant, and room six-Well, I have a strict ‘no pets rule,’ and yet that so-called rock star managed to sneak a llama up to his room. I’m afraid I’m going to have to replace the carpets. At his expense, of course.”

Peewee chuckled and brushed away a tsunami of sweat from his lower brow. “We’ll try to obey the rules, Miss Yoder. We’re just here to chill out, relax, and soak in the ambience of Aye- mish country.”

“It’s pronounced ayem-bience.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing; I happen to suffer from a rare medical condition known as Magdalenus horribilis. But don’t worry. It’s a non-communicable disease-that means you can’t catch it.”

Just then Little Jacob and his father pulled up in the driveway, having returned from a weekly grocery run in to Bedford. Upon seeing the three new cars, my son practically flew inside on the wings of excitement.

“Mama, Mama! Who’s here? Where’re ya at?”

“We’re in the office, dear.”

A second later his head was buried in my apron and his little arms encircled my legs. “Papa said to tell you that we had ’ventures in town.”

“You did? Now, Jacob, be a polite young man and turn around and say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Timms.”

He turned just enough to get a peek. “Do I hafta?”

“Yes, you have to. Wherever did you leave your manners, young man? At Pat’s IGA?”

“At the pet store, Ma,” he retorted, not wasting a second. “Papa stopped so I could see the puppies and one of them licked me all over my face and arms and Papa said maybe I could get it.”

“He did?”

“Can I?”

There are times, especially early in my relationship with Gabe, that I wanted to lick him all over the face and arms, but now I just wanted to wring his neck.

“We’ll see, dear,” I said.

“No, I want a puppy.” My dear little monster punctuated each word with a well-placed kick to my shins. “Now!”

“What you’re going to get now, sweetie, is a nap.” It was, after all, late afternoon, and even though he was four, I could tell that the excitement of a trip into town had taken its toll.

“I’m too big for a nap.” This time the cute little hands had closed into fists and he was pummeling my midriff.

I pulled him off me like he was a spitting kitten. “You’re not too big to mind your mama. Little boys who hit and kick do not deserve puppies. Now go straight to your room and lie quietly on your bed.”

Off he went, stomping up a storm to show me that I was the meanest mama in the whole wide world-which I’m sure I was. I didn’t spank him, mind you, because I don’t countenance hitting; by the way, that rule applied to everyone in the family.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said to the Timmses, who had been watching, wide-eyed.

“Not at all,” Peewee said. “If it had been me, I would have walloped the kid.”

“Well, I still think you were mean,” Tiny said. Her eyes filled with tears and she ran up the stairs, following closely behind Little Jacob.