13

“Stop!” he roared.

What is it about the adult-child relationship that never quite changes? Or could it be that because Jimmy had been physically abusive to me, that he once had the power to order me around, I felt that I still needed to obey him? Whatever the reason, I stopped and did my own quivering-not from rage, but from fear.

“Minerva!” he roared again. “So you really want to know what I thought of her, do you? Then I’ll tell you: that woman was a t-r-o-l-l-” He checked himself abruptly as he inclined his small bald head toward the infant seat I cradled. “No, I probably shouldn’t even spell that in front of him.”

“Who? The little runt? Trust me, he can take it.”

The red blotches shriveled before my eyes. “Yes, but it isn’t a Christian thing to say. And it was wrong enough of me to call you a smarty-pants.”

“Pants, shmants. I’ve already forgotten about that. Now, were you saying that Minerva was a troll, like the kind that lived under the bridge when Billy Goat Gruff came trotting along? Because honestly, dear-”

“No, you idiot, that’s only a children’s story! Now look what you made me say.”

I took five steps backward and felt for the first step that led down to the walk. “Ah, she was a trolley off her tracks! Well, personally I couldn’t agree more. But in what way did she strike you as being-well, nertz to Mertz?”

“ Magdalena, you’re certifiable, you know that?”

“Yes, but a padded cell with documentation is better than one without, n’est-ce pas?”

“She was a trollop, you numbskull!”

“Oy vey. Little Jacob, cover your ears.” Of course the fruit of my womb was unable to do anything more than gurgle a response to my directive, so I took the time out of my escape to tuck his blanket up around his ears. “Please, Jimmy,” I begged, “no more of that vulgar language.”

“I’m sorry,” he said at once, “but you really do have a thick skull.”

“Not the N word; the T word.”

“Oh, come off it, Magdalena. That little fella was not the product of a virgin birth, and just saying the T word in front of him is not going to turn him into some sort of deviant.”

“Well, I never! Okay, so perhaps I did, but it’s none of your business. Besides, now who’s not answering questions?”

Jimmy Neufenbakker snorted. “If a simple answer is what you want, then I suggest you ask the Zug twins.”

With that he shuffled backward until he could slam the door. Not a second latter a feral cat yowled from beneath the porch. Almost immediately its loud, mournful cry of distress was drowned out by Little Jacob exercising his lungs. Clearly it was time to make a hasty exit, even if I had to leave my dignity behind.

Little Jacob, we soon learned, found riding in automobiles to be very soothing. Sometimes it was the only way we could get him to fall asleep. Thus it was that after leaving the somewhat temperamental Jimmy Neufenbakker, I took the tyke on a rather extensive tour of historic Hernia.

Although many tourists are initially drawn to our town by its predominantly Mennonite and Amish culture, a goodly number now come just to gaze at our plethora of Victorian-era homes. To be absolutely honest about it, the most spectacular of these houses were built by our nonpacifist brethren: the Baptists, Methodists, and Presbyterians. At any rate, for me it is always a pleasure to drive, or even walk, through this neighborhood, and Little Jacob immediately proved that he was a chip off the old block.

I had just turned down Crabapple Street when I noticed Frankie Schwartzentruber out in her yard. She appeared to be bending over to examine something in her flower bed, but since the dear old lady suffers from such severe osteoporosis, it is difficult to tell when in fact she is standing erect. Frankie has been a de facto member of the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church Brotherhood ever since her husband, Simon Schwartzentruber, was killed during a brotherhood game of horseshoes thirty-five years ago.

Of course it was a freak accident; Simon wasn’t even in the game, but a bystander, watching from the other end of the pit. The game might have proceeded without a hitch, had not Magnus Amstutz, a veritable giant of a man, but a novice player, thrown a pitch so hard that it sailed a good six yards past the stake and slipped around Simon’s long, slim neck instead. Simon was pronounced dead at the scene. As for poor Magnus, he was so traumatized by the event that he quit Beechy Grove Mennonite Church and moved to Washington, D.C., to become a lobbyist for one of the tobacco companies. “If I’m going to kill people,” he is quoted as saying, “I may as well make money from it.”

Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was about to put the screws to Frankie Schwartzentruber. The woman may be an elderly widow, and as short as a third grader, but may I remind you that it is said that the Devil can take many forms. Since her back was to the street, and she didn’t appear to have heard either my car engine, or the doors slamming, or the clack of my heels on the pavement, I cleared my throat loudly.

“Expel sputum on this sidewalk, Magdalena, and you’ll get down on your hands and knees to clean it up.”

I recoiled in surprise. “Frankie, who knew that you knew the S word?”

“You’re not the only college-educated woman in this town, Magdalena.” She turned slowly. “I know I’m being generous about your two years at the junior college, but hey-noblesse oblige, right?”

“How very kind of you, dear.”

“ Magdalena, why are you here?” Her eyes, which were slightly crossed (no doubt due to how tight her face had been pulled), focused on my bundle of joy for the first time. “Well, why didn’t you say that you had the little one with you? Come inside before he catches his-well, before he catches cold.”

I must confess that I hadn’t been inside the Schwartzentruber house since the day after Simon’s funeral, when I came to pick up my empty casserole dish. Simon carved cuckoo clocks for a living. He sold the clocks through a small catalog, and by word of mouth out of his house. I’d heard that he was one of the best cuckoo-clock-makers in the country and that his prices reflected this. Having never been in the market for a timepiece from which sprang a wooden bird with the sole purpose of insulting me, I’d never bothered to ask just how much one had to pay for a genuine Schwartzentruber. Whatever the price, Simon must have done pretty well for himself, because his widow had never appeared to be in need, and the house was still ticking away like a hundred time bombs.

“Rather gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?” Frankie said.

“What?”

“So it’s true, then, that you’re hard of hearing? And all along I thought you were obtuse.”

“But I’m neither! Hardheaded maybe, but I mean that literally. My birth mother practically overdosed on milk and calcium supplements, and of course I was raised on a dairy farm. Why, you could drop me headfirst from a silo and the worst that could happen is that I’d bite my tongue. But in answer to your first question, yes, it is creepy in here-no offense, of course-and if those birds all start in at the same time, I might just jump out of my brogans.”

Frankie’s pale, thin lips formed a split-second bow. “Don’t worry: I disconnected all the birds the day I buried Simon. I never could stand them.”

“But all these clocks-you have to wind them-why do you still run them?”

“I can’t stand the silence either, but the ticking I can take.” She hobbled around to peer into the carrier slung over my arm. “Just like I thought; this little fellow seems to like it as well.”

Indeed, the new numero uno man in my life was fast asleep, and either was having pleasant clock-induced dreams or was passing a smidgen of gas. “Hmm,” I said, “I don’t suppose you’d sell me a couple.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that! These are my retirement, you know.”