Mean and Shellfish Read online

  I smoothed my crisp white apron over my black dress. ‘So, dear,’ I said, as I sinfully admired my reflection, ‘when is your cousin arriving?’

  ‘Any minute now.’

  I froze. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m sure I told you that as well, hon. She’s supposed to get here early, before the other guests, so that we can get her comfortably settled in down here before all the hubbub begins.’

  ‘What do you mean by down here?’ I said.

  ‘In our room, of course. Didn’t I tell you that one, or both – I can’t remember which – of her legs was bitten off by a saltwater crocodile, and that she’s been confined to a wheelchair? We can’t possibly expect her to drag herself up your impossibly steep stairs using just her arms.’

  ‘Coconut crumpets!’ I cursed. ‘No, you didn’t tell me. I suppose then that we’re supposed to sleep in one of my guest rooms?’

  Gabe winked. ‘Those guest rooms are cozy, right? And we can bunk Little Jacob over at his gam-gam’s house. You know how she adores him.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Hold that thought, mister,’ I said.

  TWO

  Unless Gabe’s cousin Miriam was a six-foot, five-inch-tall Texan who wore cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat, she was not our first caller that morning. Standing beside the man, maybe just half a step back, was a woman wearing cowgirl boots and a one-gallon hat. It’s possible the hat that the old gal was wearing didn’t even hold more than two pints, given that she barely exceeded five feet in height.

  ‘Morn’n, ma’am,’ he drawled. ‘Mah name is Tiny Hancock, and this heah filly is my purty bride of forty-seven yeahs, Delphia, and we look forward to parking our saddlebags here for the next three days and eatin’ vittles’ with y’all, around y’all’s communal campfire, so to speak.’

  I’ve had a passel of Texans as my guests over the years, but none that ever sounded like Tiny Hancock. Well, two could play that game.

  ‘Velcomen to zee PennDutch Inn,’ I said in my best fake Pennsylvania Dutch accent. Mi namen ist Magdalena Yoder und zee eez—’

  ‘Stop it right now, you two,’ barked Delphia Hancock in a voice barely a smidge above a baritone. ‘Neither of you is any good at accents. Now get in on inside; there are flies out here.’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ Tiny said, and practically pushed me back into the inn. If he had actually pushed me, I’d have screamed bloody murder, in hopes that My Beloved would have heard me and rushed to my defence.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, once I’d gathered my wits, ‘I thought that you two were a married couple, so I assigned you to the same room. I didn’t realize that you were mother and son. But I must say, Mrs Hancock, you do look young enough to be Mr Hancock’s wife … er, younger sister, you know.’

  If I’d heard Delphia Hancock laugh in a crowd of strangers, and my back was turned, I’d have been quite certain that she was a man. Her husband’s laugh was a full octave higher than hers.

  ‘Just so you know,’ I said, ‘I discriminate against no one, and you’re not the first transgender woman to stay here. I’ll admit that at first I didn’t believe there was such a thing as transgendered persons, because they aren’t mentioned in the Bible. Then my husband, who is a physician, pointed out that there are scads of medical conditions that aren’t mentioned in the Bible. I mean, do you recall reading any biblical passages about conjoined twins?’

  Instead of being comforted by my words, which were meant to show inclusion, the Hancocks laughed even louder. That both mystified and irritated me, but at least it brought my husband ambling out of our bedroom and through the dining room. I was relieved to see that he was still dressed in the Amish costume that I’d made him wear, including the fake beard, cheesy though it was.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said, ignoring his lines. ‘What am I missing?’

  ‘Your charming fake Amish wife thinks that I’m transgender because I have a low voice,’ Delphia boomed.

  ‘I didn’t say that there’s anything wrong with it,’ I hastened to say. ‘The Good Lord made us who we are and loves us all equally!’

  ‘Hon, what have I said happens when one assumes?’ Gabe said self-righteously, as he ripped off the beard.

  ‘One makes an ass out of u and me,’ I said. ‘Pardon my French, folks.’ But everyone ignored me.

  ‘How did you know the Amish bit was an act?’ Gabe said.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because my wife, Dr Delphia Hancock, is a distinguished linguist and could tell immediately that your wife was faking it with her Amish dialect.’

  ‘Not everyone is as astute as you, Dr Hancock,’ my devastatingly handsome husband said with his trademark smile.

  I groaned inwardly. Gabe is a medical doctor, a cardiac surgeon, who has performed heart transplants. I knew that he didn’t like the fact that in America, a person with a Doctor of Philosophy degree and a person with a Doctor of Medicine degree both had the word ‘doctor’ in their professional titles. In his mind, that was like comparing a strawberry to a fruit salad. To his credit, he is a somewhat modest man, who only expresses that feeling to his mother – or so I’ve been told. By his mother.

  ‘And the man who just complimented you,’ I said to Delphia, ‘is the famous, Harvard-educated, heart-transplant surgeon, Dr Gabriel Rosen. He completed four years of college, four years of medical school, five years of general surgical residency, and a three-year cardiothoracic fellowship.’

  ‘Mags,’ Gabe said, his tone chiding, ‘that was completely out of line.’

  ‘Was it?’ I said. ‘Since when is sticking up for your spouse a crime?’

  ‘Now kids, play nice,’ Tiny said, ‘or Father’s going to have to spank you and put you to bed without any supper.’

  I can tell you that Gabe and I were both dumbfounded by Tiny’s outrageously inappropriate comment. Our unspoken emotions must have registered on our faces because Delphia put her hands on her hips and, like a mouse that could roar, hollered up at her husband in a voice lower than his.

  ‘You apologize to these nice people, Father,’ she said. For the record, I wouldn’t even consider calling my husband ‘Father’. First of all, the Babester is … well, enough said on that subject. And secondly, the Bible tells us to call no man ‘Father’ but God.

  ‘Aw, shucks, Delphia, I was only joking around. They know that.’

  ‘Apologize now,’ Delphia barked, ‘or you’re the one who will be going to bed with a good hard spanking and without any supper.’

  Tiny hung his huge head, which, for the record, is even larger than mine. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said to his wife in a tiny voice. ‘Dr Rosen and Mrs Rosen, I apologize for the spanking comment.’

  ‘And the comment about withholding supper,’ Delphia growled.

  ‘Yeah, that comment as well,’ Tiny said.

  ‘Apologies accepted,’ Gabe said.

  ‘So we’re good then, right?’ Delphia demanded.

  ‘Well, I’m quite sure that Dr and Mrs Rosen are,’ I said sweetly, ‘but what about Miss Yoder?’

  Tiny, who by now was fully inside my lobby, had yet to remove his hat. Unless he was an Orthodox Jew, I was going to fine him five dollars for being ill-mannered.

  ‘Who is Miss Yoder?’ Tiny said.

  ‘Moi, dear,’ I said. I could feel my sweetness dissolving like artificial sweetener when it meets hot coffee.

  ‘Her name was all over the brochure that I gave you when I booked this place, Father,’ Delphia said.

  ‘Are you sure that we’re talking about the same brochure, Mother? I couldn’t get past the photo of the woman on the back cover. She looked like a real battleaxe.’

  ‘You’ll have to forgive my husband,’ Delphia said. ‘He suffers from foot and mouth disease.’

  ‘This disease is usually seen in young children,’ Gabe said.

  ‘What Delphia means,’ I said, ‘is that her husband tends to stick his foot in his mouth.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gabe said, and to his credit, he blushed. Althou
gh I have lived a sheltered life, growing up a Conservative Mennonite, of Swiss Amish ancestry, I seem to have picked up more idiomatic expressions than my husband. I believe the reason for this is because I have operated a full-board inn for two decades. My clientele, although most of whom have been very wealthy, have come from all over the country, bringing with them their colourful expressions.

  At any rate, before the aforementioned ‘battleaxe’ had a chance to formulate her own response, a van barrelled up the driveway in a spray of gravel. The second the driver slammed on the car’s brakes, he, or she, leaned on the horn for an interminable length of time. I realize that I have been known to embellish my stories on rare occasions, but this time I’m almost positive that I heard Elmer Gantry’s mules bray two farms over, and then Silas Marner’s pack of coon hounds pick up their refrain. Then again, perhaps the infernal noise had driven me temporarily around the bend.

  ‘Great gobs of clotted cream,’ I swore angrily, ‘I have half a mind to pelt you with scones.’ Thank heavens the honking was so loud that the Hancocks didn’t appear to have heard me swear and deliver my most un-Mennonite threat of violence.

  The four of us rushed out, our hands over our ears. When the driver of the van, a woman, saw us, she took her hand off the horn and smiled broadly.

  ‘G’day, mates. Which one of you handsome blokes is me cousin, Gabe?’ Miriam had the deeper, raspy voice of a smoker. Believe me, if she lit up, she was going to have to light out.

  ‘That would be me,’ I said, still rather annoyed. I meant it as a joke, of course.

  ‘Crikey, mate,’ the new arrival said, ‘you haven’t changed a bit since college. Same soft girlish skin. I see you’ve kept all of your hair too, so you’re doing better than me, mate. There were two crocs that attacked me that day and nearly did me in. One got me leg’ – she gestured at the robe that covered her lap and the pedals on the floor – ‘and the other croc nearly bit me skull in half and took all of me scalp, as well as one eye.’ She gestured at a hideous black wig that looked as if it might have once been part of an inexpensive Halloween costume.

  Big Tiny gasped in horror, which was an appropriate response in my book. But diminutive Delphia’s reaction was to snort softly and roll her eyes. Never had I witnessed a disabled person be treated with so much disrespect.

  Poor Miriam was doomed to spend the rest of her life wearing wigs or head wraps in order to cover up what must be serious scars. The coarse synthetic wig hair was long, styled with a part in the middle, and she wore it with the left side brushed forward so that it mostly obscured half of her face.

  However, despite the heavy layer of foundation that Miriam had trowelled all over her face, I could still catch the outline of a grotesque scar that ran from the outside of her jawbone up to her eye socket, which was covered by an eye patch. This was not your run-of-the-mill black patch either; this patch bore the image of a heavily veined eyeball sporting a neon blue iris. Clearly this poor woman needed my pity, not my anger, nor even my scorn. It was time to step up to the plate and shower her with the love and compassion that my faith required of me, even if I had to grit my teeth the entire time.

  ‘Welcome, dear. Any cousin of Gabe is a cousin of mine. Although, I dare say, if you wish to return the compliment, you would do well to first give it a lot of thought. Until my grandparents’ generation, all of my ancestors were Swiss Amish and married exclusively among themselves for four hundred years. My grandparents were fifth cousins, five different ways. They were even double second cousins. This means that I am my own first cousin. Give me a sandwich and there you have it – voila, I am a family picnic.’

  ‘My, you are garrulous,’ Miriam said in her charming Australian accent. ‘You remind me of the budgerigars of my adopted homeland.’

  The Hancocks laughed, which I thought rather rude of them.

  ‘You mean digeridoos,’ I said, ‘don’t you? That’s the name of the instrument that you’re thinking of.’

  Gabe took my elbow gently. ‘Budgerigars are parakeets,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘I don’t think that she meant it as a compliment. Miriam, how about you open the back and I’ll get your wheelchair, so that we can get you into the house?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask, cousin,’ she said.

  Gabe hadn’t even blinked when he’d seen how much his beautiful cousin had changed. Ever the kind and chivalrous man – at least to other women – he hurried to meet her needs.

  Miriam waited until Gabe was fully occupied retrieving her chair, and the Hancocks were on their way back inside before she addressed me again.

  ‘Cousin Magdalena,’ she said, ‘please be a doll and come around to the other side of the car and get Fi-Fi for me. My precious baby hasn’t had a potty break since I left Pittsburgh International Airport.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My dingo.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘you’ve had your fun, but the joke is over. It’s been a long day, and it’s only just begun.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Miriam said. ‘Should I tell Cousin Gabe that you simply refuse to help me?’

  ‘Help you with what?’ said Gabe, who’d returned riding in Miriam’s wheelchair. Not only was the conveyance motorized, but it had so many switches and gadgets, one would think that with the addition of a small propeller, and a pair of ironing boards to serve as wings, one could get the chair airborne.

  ‘I won’t help her get her dingo out of her ding dang car,’ I said with a sardonic laugh. ‘Imagine that.’

  ‘Yes, the dingo,’ Gabe said. ‘Uh, Mags, I should have warned you about that. I’m afraid it’s a real, wild Australian dog.’

  THREE

  Boy, did I see red! Incidentally, if the average person sees red, metaphorically speaking, when they are angry, what colour does a totally colour-blind person see when they feel that emotion? Perhaps darker shades of grey?

  ‘Actually, she’s only half dingo,’ Miriam said. ‘Otherwise, customs wouldn’t have allowed her into the country. And she’s ever so tame; I hand-reared her. You know, bottle-fed her as a pup after her dog mum abandoned her immediately after giving birth to the litter.’

  I’m rarely given to tantrums, but this time I stamped one of my boat-sized feet. ‘This is impossible! I can’t believe it, if it’s true. I have a firm “no-pets” rule on my establishment, and my husband knows this.’

  Gabe shrugged, before winking at Miriam. ‘Magdalena, please keep in mind that this is a special occasion. Miriam flew all the way from Australia to see Ma be honoured as Hernia’s Citizen of the Year, in hopes that it will mend the rift in our family. Fi-Fi suffers from canine separation disorder and cannot be boarded, so what was Miriam to do? Surely we can make one exception, can’t we? For dear old Ma? For me?’

  Frankly, Gabe’s mother is about as dear to me as a case of poison ivy, or that bit of parsley stem that gets stuck between one’s back teeth at a church supper, and is driving one crazy, but there’s not a toothpick to be found for twenty miles around. Her son is a different story. He is the father of my children, and the man who shares my bed. It is no secret hereabouts that I’m married to a mama’s boy, and ours has been a rocky marriage. But I’d made a solemn vow to cleave to my husband until ‘death do us part’ and unless Cousin Miriam was the Grim Reaper – and I wouldn’t have discounted that – we were both still quite alive and kicking.

  ‘Anything you say, dear,’ I said.

  ‘Congratulations, Cousin Gabe,’ Miriam said gaily, ‘you finally found that subservient woman that you went on and on about when we were in college. Is that why you finally married a Christian? Because her scriptures state that a wife should obey her husband?’

  Gabe was about to lift Miriam out of the van, but he straightened and looked at me. ‘Hon, I don’t remember any such conversations. Besides, you know Ma, she never would have approved of a mixed marriage back then.’

  ‘She still doesn’t,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right!’ Gabe said, sounding greatly relieved,
as if I’d exonerated him of Miriam’s implication that I was a meek pushover. As a matter of fact, I struggle with the very scripture to which she’d just alluded.

  I was sorely tempted to treat Miriam to a sample of my personality that was distinctly not subservient, but my conscience intervened. Had not the poor woman suffered enough already, what with being maimed and disfigured by the jaws of two of the world’s most fearsome predators? Now only in her early fifties, quite possibly she still had two or three decades ahead of her to live in a wheelchair, half-blinded, and without a scalp.

  ‘I’ll go get Fi-Fi,’ I said. I didn’t say it meekly, but humbly, as a good Mennonite woman ought to. We are, after all, experts on humility, and justifiably proud of it.

  ‘Good girl,’ Miriam called out, as I started around the car. ‘Oh, and there’s an old shower curtain in the back of the van that you can lay on top of the mattress, on her side of my bed. Fi-Fi is mostly housebroken, but she is half dingo, so I can’t guarantee anything. Not even that your sheep will be safe!’

  I pivoted on the sole of my left brogan with half the grace of a drunken ballerina. But having never seen a sober ballerina, that’s just a guess, mind you. In a flash I was back at my starting point.

  ‘Oh, no. Oh, no. We’re putting you in our room, and you’re getting our bed. If you think that ding dang dong dingo of yours is going to make doo-doo in our bed, then you’re a ding-a-ling!’

  ‘She meant pee-pee,’ my clueless husband said, ‘not doo-doo.’

  ‘Then the three of you can share a room,’ I said, ‘in another establishment.’

  Miriam had a deep, throaty laugh. I could have imagined it coming from Delphia’s throat.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘your not-so-little woman is not as subservient as I imagined. She’s got a spark in her after all. If I didn’t have a Sheila of me own back in Cairns, I could fancy this one.’

  Let it be known that my Achilles heel is susceptibility to flattery. And like just about everyone whom I’ve ever met, I have a need to be liked – at least by someone. However, my desire for others’ approval has never even caused me to fantasize about doing the mattress mambo with another person of the same gender.