have been proud of you. But not so proud that it is a sin, yah?”
“Thank you, Freni.” I walked back to where she was standing and, bending at the waist, kissed the top of her head, just in front of her prayer bonnet. Her ears still smelled of yeast dough.
“Ach,” Freni squawked. Such overt displays of sentiment are practically unheard of in our culture, and limited to Baptists and Presbyterians, who appear to be prone to excess of all kinds. It is a little known fact that nearly seventy-eight percent of all Amish, and probably sixty-three percent of all Mennonites, lack the demonstrative gene. (Then again, since 61.2 percent of all facts are mostly made up, this statistic may be somewhat inaccurate.)
At any rate, I kissed her again.
Once in my suite, I headed straight for Big Bertha. Friends may come and go, but the pleasures of a thirty-two-jet whirlpool bath are forever. Yes, it is a sin to bathe in the middle of the day, but I was a fallen woman. Just ask any proper matron in Hernia what she thought of Magdalena Yoder’s morals. The answer, thanks to 52 Tamar
Myers
Aaron Miller, would not be pretty. Having succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh with a pseudo-husband, what more did I have to lose by releasing tension with thirty-two swivel heads?
I poured a lavish amount of gardenia-scented bubble bath into the tub and let the froth grow until the surface of the pool was covered with a meringue of bubbles two feet high. I was about to step into this earthly slice of heaven when the telephone beside my bed rang. This is my private line, and besides family, only a select few have access to me through it: Babs, Mel, Charlize, Katie, Oprah, Ben—you get the picture.
I eschew caller ID. If the Good Lord had wanted us to know who was calling, he would have made us all mind readers.
“Hello?” I said in my pleasant voice.
“Ma’am, we have reports that basements in your area have been flooding. We here at Squanderyore Savings can come out and give you a free damage assessment, and if your house qualifies, we can put on a complete waterproof seal for only six easy payments of ninety-nine ninety-nine. May I schedule a visit from one of our water-damage experts?”
I sighed. “I’m afraid my house won’t qualify. I’ve been nag-ging it to study for the last twelve years, and all it ever does is make excuses. I’ve even resorted to threats. ‘If you don’t get good grades, you’re not going to have a lock on Yale,’ I tell it. ‘And what if you can’t get into any college? What are you going to do then? Live in a trailer park? Or worse yet, live on the street as a tent?’ And wouldn’t you know, my house doesn’t even have the decency to answer.”
“Excuse me, ma’am? Are you all right?”
“Fine as frog’s hair—which is pretty ding-dang fine. Most folks don’t even know frogs have hair; that’s how fine it is. While we’re on the subject of amphibians, why would anyone in their right mind fall in love with a big blue frog? That’s almost as bad as falling in love with a muskrat—not that I’ve done that, mind you. Aaron was only a rat. But muskrat love? What’s up with that?
HELL HATH NO CURRY
53
Have you ever smelled a muskrat up close? There’s a reason for the musk part of their name. The rat part too.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go now.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You called me on my private line, so you’re just going to have to hear me out. Are you married?”
“Uh—I just got engaged.” The caller was a man, but the excitement in his voice was almost palpable.
“Where’s the honeymoon going to be?”
“That’s just it. My fiancée is planning the wedding, but I’m supposed to plan the honeymoon. I thought the bride was supposed to plan everything.”
“Would you like me to help you?”
“Nah—okay, I’ll bite. How?”
“Well, I know this charming little inn down in Amish country, in the mountains of southern Pennsylvania.
“Thank you, Freni.” I walked back to where she was standing and, bending at the waist, kissed the top of her head, just in front of her prayer bonnet. Her ears still smelled of yeast dough.
“Ach,” Freni squawked. Such overt displays of sentiment are practically unheard of in our culture, and limited to Baptists and Presbyterians, who appear to be prone to excess of all kinds. It is a little known fact that nearly seventy-eight percent of all Amish, and probably sixty-three percent of all Mennonites, lack the demonstrative gene. (Then again, since 61.2 percent of all facts are mostly made up, this statistic may be somewhat inaccurate.)
At any rate, I kissed her again.
Once in my suite, I headed straight for Big Bertha. Friends may come and go, but the pleasures of a thirty-two-jet whirlpool bath are forever. Yes, it is a sin to bathe in the middle of the day, but I was a fallen woman. Just ask any proper matron in Hernia what she thought of Magdalena Yoder’s morals. The answer, thanks to 52 Tamar
Myers
Aaron Miller, would not be pretty. Having succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh with a pseudo-husband, what more did I have to lose by releasing tension with thirty-two swivel heads?
I poured a lavish amount of gardenia-scented bubble bath into the tub and let the froth grow until the surface of the pool was covered with a meringue of bubbles two feet high. I was about to step into this earthly slice of heaven when the telephone beside my bed rang. This is my private line, and besides family, only a select few have access to me through it: Babs, Mel, Charlize, Katie, Oprah, Ben—you get the picture.
I eschew caller ID. If the Good Lord had wanted us to know who was calling, he would have made us all mind readers.
“Hello?” I said in my pleasant voice.
“Ma’am, we have reports that basements in your area have been flooding. We here at Squanderyore Savings can come out and give you a free damage assessment, and if your house qualifies, we can put on a complete waterproof seal for only six easy payments of ninety-nine ninety-nine. May I schedule a visit from one of our water-damage experts?”
I sighed. “I’m afraid my house won’t qualify. I’ve been nag-ging it to study for the last twelve years, and all it ever does is make excuses. I’ve even resorted to threats. ‘If you don’t get good grades, you’re not going to have a lock on Yale,’ I tell it. ‘And what if you can’t get into any college? What are you going to do then? Live in a trailer park? Or worse yet, live on the street as a tent?’ And wouldn’t you know, my house doesn’t even have the decency to answer.”
“Excuse me, ma’am? Are you all right?”
“Fine as frog’s hair—which is pretty ding-dang fine. Most folks don’t even know frogs have hair; that’s how fine it is. While we’re on the subject of amphibians, why would anyone in their right mind fall in love with a big blue frog? That’s almost as bad as falling in love with a muskrat—not that I’ve done that, mind you. Aaron was only a rat. But muskrat love? What’s up with that?
HELL HATH NO CURRY
53
Have you ever smelled a muskrat up close? There’s a reason for the musk part of their name. The rat part too.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to go now.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You called me on my private line, so you’re just going to have to hear me out. Are you married?”
“Uh—I just got engaged.” The caller was a man, but the excitement in his voice was almost palpable.
“Where’s the honeymoon going to be?”
“That’s just it. My fiancée is planning the wedding, but I’m supposed to plan the honeymoon. I thought the bride was supposed to plan everything.”
“Would you like me to help you?”
“Nah—okay, I’ll bite. How?”
“Well, I know this charming little inn down in Amish country, in the mountains of southern Pennsylvania.
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