Hell Hath No Curry Page 11

  Her unpainted mouth opened and closed several times without emitting a sound. When she found her voice, it was surprisingly husky.

  “I should have known. I was played for a fool, wasn’t I?”

  “That depends. What was his story?”

  “He said he’d lost all the money his daddy left him in some Nigerian Internet scheme, and that he’d learned his lesson, and was finally going back to college in order to get a real job someday. He seemed so contrite. Magdalena, there were even tears in his eyes.”

  “They’re called crocodile tears, dear. Cornelius was far too bright to be suckered by a letter from Nigeria asking for monetary help in recovering lost assets. He’s the one who warned me about them, and that was probably ten years ago. I’m truly sorry, Veronica, but your stepson did not need your money.”

  “But then why the sob story? Why?”

  I shrugged before scrambling to my large, but uncommonly attractive, feet. Why, indeed. I don’t understand why people do half the things they do. Why, for instance, do folks deface public property? Why do they litter? Why do they spit their gum out onto the pavement in front of the Bedford Wal-Mart? Why do they let themselves get so frustrated by other drivers that they react in anger? And this is just the small stuff. Why do they deliberately do hurtful things to other people…

  “Magdalena, is your mind wandering yet again?”

  “I think it’s lost.”

  “I swear, Magdalena, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were stoned on pot.”

  “Alas, that has never been an option—oops, did I say that? I mean, it isn’t, is it?”

  “Are you hinting around for a joint?”

  “If I was, would you give me one?”

  “Do I look stupid, Magdalena? You represent the law in Bedford County. Of course I wouldn’t give you one—not that I have any to give. You should be ashamed of yourself. You have everything going for you in life: money, beauty, a handsome boyfriend, and that incredible voice of yours. Why would you want to risk any of that? What emotional hole are you trying to fill?”

  “I don’t have any holes to fill,” I wailed.

  “Magdalena, if you don’t mind me saying so, wailing does not become you. It’s very distracting.”

  And here I thought I’d already learned the lesson of humility. Let me tell you, there is nothing more humiliating than having an ex-hippie lecture you on comportment. Gathering my shreds of pride about me, as if they were a garment that had malfunctioned, I hoofed it back to my car with nary a peep. Pressing an elegant, albeit elongated, foot to the metal, I most certainly set a record for getting back to Hernia.

  When all else fails, go to the one who isn’t supposed to fail. Normally that would be the Good Lord, but at the moment I had his emissary in mind. After all, the Lord had more important things to do, like choosing which passengers on a doomed airplane are praying the hardest, and thus deserve to live, or which people, based on the intensity of their supplications, will be plucked alive from the devastation left behind by a hurricane. These are important matters to consider, whereas mine was entirely personal, and trivial to boot.

  Reverend and Mrs. Fiddlegarber live in the parsonage owned by Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. It is the same house that was occupied by Reverend Schrock and his shrill wife, Lodema. Sadly, the good reverend has gone on to eternal rest, and as for Lodema, she is ensconced in a rest home for the severely disturbed that is located deep within the heart of the Pocono Mountains. After her husband’s murder she regressed to the level of a six-year-old girl. In fact, I received a letter from her recently, printed in large block letters asking for a raise in her “ALAWANS.” She was saving up to her first “BARBY DOL.”

  Never an optimist, I steeled myself for the worst as I rang the doorbell at 665 Poplar Street. Once again my pessimism was rewarded, and I found myself navel to face with our new preacher’s diminutive wife, Petunia. A rose by any other name might still be a rose, to paraphrase the bard, but Petunia Fiddlegarber could only be a thorn.

  “Greetings and felicitations,” I said pleasantly.

  “Is that Spanish?”

  “Not the last time I checked. Is the reverend here?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Certainly. I was supposed to meet him here at two hairs past a freckle.”

  “Is that Pennsylvania Dutch?”

  “If you insist.” I cupped my hands to my mouth. “Oh, Reverend! ’Tis I, the one who signs your paychecks. Wherefore art thou?”

  “Why, I never,” Petunia sputtered.

  “Then you haven’t missed out on much. Believe me, it’s overrated.”

  “What?”

  “What did you mean?”

  “You know, Miss Yoder, not everyone appreciates your flippancy. As a professional writer, I, for one, think that not only do you try too hard to be funny, but most of the time you fail. The result is an inability to communicate effectively. If you like, I could work with you—say, on a weekly basis. We could discuss my fee structure at our first session.”

  “But you write enema instructions, for crying out loud.”

  “They’re not just instructions; I write informative prose of an inspirational nature. Perhaps you’d like to take one of the boxes home with you and study it. That could be your assignment for next time.”

  Thank heavens the reverend materialized before I had a chance to tell Petunia what she could do with her box. “Magdalena, how good of you to drop by!”

  Petunia pursed her lips. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”

  Reverend Fiddlegarber chuckled nervously. “I’m afraid my wife likes to joke.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Please, Magdalena, come in.”

  “But Gerald—”

  The reverend grabbed his wife’s arm and literally pulled her from the doorway. I sailed into the house on a cloud of righteous indignation. Before heading to the back of the house, where I knew the reverend’s study was located, I paused only long enough to glare at the thorn in my side.

  Alas, I should have paused longer. But how was I to know I was heading straight for the lion’s den?

  18

  I have been in the parsonage study innumerable times. In fact, I am the one who supervised its decoration. Since the Good Lord had been a carpenter, I thought knotty pine was a perfect choice for the walls. A preacher should have a bookcase to hold the Bible and a few commentaries, but not one so large as to give shelf space to works of so-called contemporary scholarship, much of which is aimed at diverting believers from the straight and narrow path. A desk is in order, serving as it does as a surface upon which to write sermons, but it need not accommodate a computer. (I have nothing against computers, mind you; it is the Internet to which I object, seeing as how it is little more than a superhighway system for the Devil. Al Gore should be ashamed of himself for having invented it.) Now, where was I? Oh yes, a desk requires a chair, a straight-back chair, one designed to encourage proper alignment of the spine. A church-issued calendar and a plain brown trash can complete the décor.

  Imagine my shock, then, when I sailed into a room that was unrecognizable. The beautiful knotty pine had been painted white, wall-to-wall shelves had been installed along one side, and the pastor-appropriate desk had been replaced with a monstrosity that might embarrass even the most ostentatious televangelist. Sitting atop this altar to the ego was the most elaborate computer setup I had ever seen. The pièce de résistance, however, was a plush leather chair with built-in massage features. If that wasn’t the Devil’s doing, then I don’t know what is. As for the calendar and trash can, the former featured cat breeds, whilst the latter was brushed steel and ultramodern in design.

  “Look what you’ve done!” I cried.

  “You like it? It’s much cheerier, don’t you think? And that other desk—whoo boy, I haven’t seen one that small since the sixth grade. Where did it come from, an elementary school?”

  I hate being found out. “It came from
an eighth-grade classroom, not a sixth. And, I’ll have you know, those were real knotty pine boards you painted over.”

  “Yes, and it took two coats, plus the primer. Oyster Shell is the name of the color. I didn’t mind doing the work myself, but I’ve been meaning to ask, when will they start work on the rest of the house?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Petunia wants you to start with the kitchen. She’s used to a flattop stove. I think she wants to paint the cabinets the same shade of white as in here. And I told her not to worry, that the horrid linoleum would definitely go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Ha, ha, good one. Unlike my wife, I appreciate your humor. She said there’s so many layers of wax on that floor that when she tried to strip it, she found Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “Hey, wait a minute! That’s my line.”

  “You’re a hoot, Magdalena, you know that?”

  A dumbfounded hoot, maybe. The nerve of the reverend and his wife to presume that in addition to a good salary and free housing, the church would spring for redecorating. What had been plenty good enough for the Schrocks wasn’t good enough for them—and they were from Maryland, for crying out loud. The next thing you know they were going to demand a car allowance, as well as a provision allowance for when they went home to visit.

  Dumb as I was, the reverend steamrolled on. “When will the car be ready?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I trust it’s a full-size model, like a Crown Vic or a Town Car. I’ve got a touch of gout and really need to be able to stretch my legs. Just not an SUV. Between you and me, unless you’re a family of eight, owning one is just plain sinful. You haven’t asked our color preferences yet, so I assume the final selection hasn’t been made. I’m partial to silver automobiles, but Petunia prefers black. We’ve agreed that silver with black interior leather would be acceptable.”

  My heart began to pound. “What you do with your money is no concern of mine, dear.”

  “By ‘your’ money, you mean my salary, correct?”

  “Yes—I mean, we haven’t really discussed that, have we?”

  “When you hired me at the retreat center in Maryland, you gave me your word that I would be compensated handsomely as pastor of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church.”

  “And indeed you will be. In addition to the use of this charming parsonage, which, frankly, you are well on the way to destroying, you will receive monthly payments of one thousand dollars, full-coverage health insurance, plus all the leftovers your heart desires from our many, and quite tasty, potluck suppers.”

  “You’re just kidding, right?”

  “Absolutely not—well, okay, Denticia Wapplemeister is not the world’s best cook, and I’d stay away from Belinda Litwiller’s concoctions—she likes using toothpaste for flavoring—but everyone else is capable of cooking up yummy things from time to time.”

  “I’m not talking about food; I’m referring to that pittance you call a salary. My wife makes more than that writing enema instructions.”

  “Pittance is such a relative term, don’t you think? I daresay a thousand U.S. dollars a month would go over quite well in Bosnia. Agreed, the commute would eat into your paycheck, but think of all the frequent flyer miles you’d get. And anyway, you don’t have to pay a mortgage here, and I’m sure someone as peaked as your otherwise lovely wife could give the insurance company a run for its money.”

  “Petunia is in perfect health, thank you. No, Miss Yoder, when I agreed to this post, I was under the impression that I would be well compensated. Clearly that is not the case. I’m afraid that either you meet my salary demands or I will be forced to seek a pastorate elsewhere.”

  “Demands?”

  “Four thousand a month, the benefits you mentioned before, and match my contribution to retirement savings.”

  “Why, that’s blackmail!”

  “No, it’s salary negotiations.”

  Ever the good sport, I chuckled pleasantly. “Okay, I’ll cry uncle. Two thousand it is, but we’ll only match your savings up to ten percent of your net salary.”

  “I wasn’t kidding. It’s four thousand or the highway. Sorry about that crude, colloquial expression.”

  “But you said we were negotiating.”

  “I was only trying to be polite. I’m serious, Miss Yoder, either you come through or Petunia and I will have to leave.”

  I sighed heavily, never being one to take defeat in stride. “Bon voyage, dear. But make sure you restore the paneling to its God-given natural state, or you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands. Belonging to one of the more conservative branches of our church as we do, we at Beechy Grove Mennonite don’t approve of frivolous lawsuits, but we have a Presbyterian attorney who doesn’t object one whit.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Exactly. It’s our attorney who dares. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to do, including finding your replacement.” One of the many other things on my agenda was to find someone who could suture together my broken heart. With Reverend Fiddlegarber now footloose, if not fancy-free, my marriage to the Babester would have to be put on hold. In order for us to get married while we could still stand—forget it; it was never going to happen. Where would I find another Mennonite minister willing to participate in a mixed marriage? Nowhere, that’s where. I was doomed to grow old alone. No doubt I’d become cynical and bitter, perhaps even sarcastic. Despite my comely appearance, children in Hernia would call me a witch…

  “Miss Yoder. Earth to Miss Yoder.”

  I shook my head hard enough to dislodge my brain, had I still been in possession of one. Gradually the pity-induced fog began to clear.

  “Uh—what?”

  “Perhaps we can compromise after all.”

  “We can?” I slapped my mouth with a shapely hand for having sounded too eager.

  “Would you like to sit down? Have some tea? I had the rabbi bring some scones and clotted cream with him from Pittsburgh. Nice young fellow—although Petunia doesn’t think much of him. By the way, she doesn’t know about the comestibles the rabbi smuggled in for me, so I would appreciate you not saying anything.”

  “My lips will be sealed between bites. But first, lay it on me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “’Tis I who should be pardoned. That’s just something my worldly sister, Susannah, says. It means tell me everything.”

  “I see. Well, I’ve been doing some quick thinking—”

  “Always a dangerous activity. Look where it got Adam.”

  “Indeed. At any rate, you are an obscenely—I mean, extremely—wealthy woman, Miss Yoder. You are the richest Mennonite I know.”

  “How do you know this?” I wailed for old time’s sake. “I sold my sinfully red BMW, my dresses are homemade, sewn from cloth purchased at the Material Girl in Bedford, my humble brown brogans are from Payless, and my sturdy Christian underwear comes straight out of the JCPenney catalog.”

  “People talk, tongues wag, surely you know how it is.”

  “The people at church? Which ones? Did Agnes Mishler say anything? Why, the nerve of that woman, and her pretending to be my friend.”

  “Miss Yoder, I can’t get specific—confidentiality of the cloth and all that. My point is that you’re loaded and have the means to make up the difference between our two positions. The church elders need never know.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears, which, by the way, are in excellent condition. “And how is this a compromise?”

  “Because I’ll agree to stay in a position that is clearly undervalued, and you’ll part with a small fraction of your vast fortune, one which is probably tax deductible anyway. We both lose a little, and we both gain a lot. What do you say?”

  “Does this mean you’ll still officiate at my wedding ceremony?” I asked, whereas I should have said, “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

  “Absolutely. Petunia will even agree to be a bridesmaid. You have my word on that.”

  “Th
anks, but no thanks. But an extra kitchen helper at the reception would be nice.”

  “So we have a deal?”

  “Deal.”

  I passed on the scones and clotted cream, having suddenly lost my appetite. Dancing with the Devil is a surefire way to diet. Not that Reverend Fiddlegarber is the Devil, mind you; merely his agent. We all are from time to time, aren’t we? Well, perhaps some of us more than others. After leaving the parsonage I headed straight over to put the screws to a woman who, some folks around here think, danced one too many times with Beelzebub, and has permanently crossed over to the dark side.

  Drustara Kurtz is an ex-Amish woman. Tall, with auburn hair and milky skin lightly sprinkled with freckles, she is beautiful enough to be a movie star, or at the very least, to model sturdy Christian underwear in catalogs. At some point during her rumschpringe, her church-sanctioned period of rebellion, Drustara hooked up with a Methodist boy from over Somerset way and started attending his church’s youth programs. Before her parents knew what was happening, she’d not only joined his church, but married him. Within a year they were divorced. From there it was a hop, skip, and a broad jump to the Oprah show, and all because she’d written a novel that critics called “achingly true.” But face it, the book also lacked punctuation and was full of randomly capitalized words; those two aspects alone are guaranteed to turn four hundred pages of trash into a literary accomplishment.

  Of course Drustara is no longer Amish. In fact, she has been placed under a ban by the bishop. Her family and friends must shun her or undergo censuring themselves. Even if her own mother was to meet her on the street, she would not be allowed to speak to Drustara. Until she repents, the red-haired beauty is dead to her people.

  As small as it is, Hernia has three distinct neighborhoods: the prestigious historic district, the new development with the improbable name of Foxcroft, and Ragsdale. The last is not an official designation, but an uncharitable appellation that apparently uncharitable souls, myself included, use when we refer to several streets on the south side of town that have not been kept up well, and that, as a result, have become affordable to the less-than-middle class. All right, it’s the poor side of town.