The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (7 page)

Melba was an attractive woman my age, which just goes to show you that not all of us are single by default. “Yes, Barbara Hostetler is going to have triplets. In fact, they’re due any day now.”

“They’re here—only they’re twins, not triplets.” What began as a smile ended as a frown. “I don’t understand.”

“Barbara delivered this morning, here at Hernia Hospital. But she gave birth to only two babies.”

“Are you sure?"

“I spoke with her husband Jon who was at the delivery, and with the doctor and nurse as well.”

Melba pushed Ginger off her lap and stood. “But that’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“Well, at least highly improbable. Doctors do make mistakes, but usually if they make mistakes it’s because they miss a baby. Not the other way around. And Dr. Pierce is very good.”

“He, uh—well—did he have a fondness for the bottle?”

Surprise, disbelief, outrage, they all took their turns on Melba’s comely face. “He most certainly did not!”

“Sorry, dear, but I needed to ask. I’ve heard that some doctors drink too much.”

“Well, not Dr. Pierce. In the twenty years I’ve worked for him, I never saw him take a drink. Not even when his wife died of cancer three years ago.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Not about his wife,” I added quickly, “but about the sober part. Melba, did you see Barbara’s chart? Did you see the ultrasound pictures?”

Melba shook her head. She had short brown hair streaked with gray and large green eyes. All she needed were a few whiskers for camouflage.

“I saw her chart, but there was never any ultrasound done. Unless there is a problem, many of the Amish around here shun such procedures. Dr. Pierce found those heartbeats the old-fashioned way, with a stethoscope. But like I said he’s very good—and sober! If you ask me, it was a shame when Barbara transferred to Dr. Bauer here at Hernia Hospital. Still, can understand her point of view. Twelve miles into Bedford might not seem like a lot to us, but it can be in a horse and buggy.”

The woman had no more experience with a horse and buggy than had I, but I nodded agreeably. She seemed encouraged enough to do a little venting. “Dr. Pierce lost a lot of patients to that little man.”

“Now, now, dear, let’s be kind,” I said foolishly. “How many patients was it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Ten, a dozen?”

She glanced around the room, as if challenging her cats to keep a secret. “Two other patients from Hernia alone.”

“Yes, but like you said, it’s much easier for Amish when there is a doctor based locally.”

“Yes, but one of those women wasn’t even Amish.”

“You don’t say? Tell me, where is Dr. Pierce now? The office machine said something about you being closed for the holidays. You do know that Christmas is still a good five and a half months away.”

She blushed. “I’m technologically challenged, you see. Dr. Pierce told me to change the message, but I was having trouble with it. So, I found an old tape— well, it still gets the point across, doesn’t it?”

“That depends. I was directed to call the doctor at home, but he wasn’t there. Is he on vacation?”

Melba was still standing. “Say, do you want any tea? Some milk, maybe?”

“No thanks. But why do I get the feeling you’re dodging my question?”

She sat, and immediately the orange cat found his place. “Because I don’t know where he is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I stayed after work last Friday to use the computer. I don’t have one of my own you see, and Iggy—I mean, Dr. Pierce doesn’t mind if I use the one at work.”

“Do you ski the net?”

“That’s surf, and yes I do. The last time I checked—which was Friday—there were over a million and a half references to cats, and that was just on Alta Vista.

No doubt other search engines could have turned up more.”

“That’s fascinating, dear, but can we get back to the subject?”

“Ah, yes. Well, when I signed off the net there was a phone message from Dr. Pierce. In it he said that he had decided to take a long vacation and asked me to change the phone message. But he didn’t tell me where he was going. Oh, and of course he told me to take a vacation as well.”

“Of course. But isn’t that unusual? I mean, for an OB-GYN to just take off like that?”

“It is, but of course doctors always have someone to cover for them.”

“Of course. Who did Dr. Pierce have?”

“Well, I really shouldn’t be telling you all this . . .”

“I love cats,” I purred.

She brightened. “Oh, well, you look like a woman who can be trusted, and it isn’t a secret or anything. Dr. Clayton, who has an office next door, sees Dr. Pierce’s patients when he has to be away.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere! Dr. Clayton will know if Barbara Hostetler was indeed carrying triplets.”

“I don’t think so. Barbara left Dr. Pierce for Dr. Bauer months ago. Besides, there’s been a lot of new patients since then.”

“But it wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? Would you happen to know his number offhand?”

“I do, but it won’t do you any good.”

I stared. “How did you know I’m having a hard time with phones?”

She shrugged. “I just know that Dr. Clayton can’t be reached.”

“He’s on vacation too?”

“He’s in Haiti, doing volunteer work for his church. He does that every summer.”

“They don’t have phones in Haiti?” If Hernia had phones, I just assumed the rest of the world did.

“Some people have telephones, but not in the mountain village he visits. Last year Dr. Pierce tried to call him about a case, and he ended up sending a telegram that took six days to get there. One of the permanent missionaries mailed it to Dr. Clayton after he returned.”

“Why, this is ridiculous!” I said it so loud both Patches and Tiddlywinks leaped from their places, their tails inflated. Ming, however, remained dangerously close to my head.

“Dr. Clayton is a very dedicated man,” she said evenly. “He donates his services. Other doctors spend their vacations on golf courses. Dr. Clayton delivers babies for the poor. He’s not a Mennonite, you know, but he is a kind and generous man. And so gentle. It’s a pleasure just to work next door to him.”

That sounded like more than hero worship to me. Perhaps the chaste Miss Mast was carrying a torch for the medical missionary. That wouldn’t be the first time a mature Mennonite woman had been beguiled by a man in authority. Mama went absolutely nuts when Reverend Kurtz became Beechy Grove Mennonite Church’s youngest pastor ever. Reverend Kurtz was a bachelor, and Mama baked him a pie, cake, or some other sweet every day of his short stay among us. Little did Mama know that Reverend Kurtz was a diabetic with absolutely no willpower. I’m not saying that Mama killed the preacher, but if she had baked those pies for Papa—who had no dietary problems—Reverend Kurtz might have stuck around long enough to marry me, and my parents would have gotten along a whole lot better.

“Is Dr. Clayton married?” I asked gently.

Tears flowed from the green eyes. “But his wife is such a mean woman. We have joint Christmas parties, you see, and he doesn’t even look at the nurses. But she always glares at him. He deserves much better.”

“Like you?”

She nodded. “I’d make him a good wife. I know I would.”

“He’s not a Mennonite, dear. You just said so yourself.”

“But he’s a lay missionary.”

“Which denomination is he?”

“Presbyterian.”

I gasped. “My sister Susannah married one of those. The next thing I knew she was painting her toenails and watching television. Once, when she thought she was alone, I even caught her”—I blushed—“I can’t say it. It’s just too embarrassing.”

“Shaving her legs?” she asked in an awed whisper. “Yes.” I hung my head in shame. “All that good God-given insulation literally down the drain.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far!”

“All the same, you don’t want to set your prayer cap for a married man. It will just end in heartbreak. Trust me, I know.”

She blew her nose loudly. “That’s right. I’d forgotten. You’re the bigamist from Beechy Grove Mennonite Church.”

“An inadvertent bigamist,” I wailed.

“We at First Mennonite Church were scandalized— well, I wasn’t. I’m a nurse, after all. I’ve seen everything.” Her jaw tilted defiantly. “I would even shave my underarms for the right man.”

I gasped in awe. “What if he doesn’t like cats?” She stiffened. “Do you think that’s possible?”

“Face it, dear, even a cat lover isn’t going to necessarily welcome thirty-two cats. Would you be willing to give up even one of these precious dears for a man? They’re barely litter-trained themselves, you know. Always leaving the toilet seat up like that, or forgetting to put the top seat down. Why, I read somewhere that a small cat can easily drown in a toilet bowl. Kittens do all the time.”

Her face had turned the color of powdered sugar. “Men!” she rasped.

“Men!” I said.

“Meow!” Ming howled.

I stood. “It’s been really nice talking to you, Melba.”

“You too, Magdalena. I wish I could have helped you more.”

“Are you sure you can’t tell me the names of those other two patients?”

Her eyes flickered.

“It could be a matter of life and death,” I coaxed. “What if I just gave you hints?”

“Hint away!”

“They both work at Miller’s Feed Store here in Hernia—well, the Amish girl used to. I don’t think she does anymore.”

“Thank you.” I reached for her hand and pumped it. I would have hugged Melba, but I didn’t want to give a woman with thirty-two cats the wrong idea— her lust for Dr. Clayton aside. Besides, she was covered with enough cat hair to knit a small sweater. It was bad enough that my bottom looked like something the cat dragged in.

“You’ll come back to visit sometime, won’t you? The puddy-tats would wov dat, wouldn’t dey?” She cooed in Ming’s face. Ming flattened himself against the wall and hissed.

“Well—”

“You know, it’s remarkable, but just this morning I was thinking about organizing a singles club for the over-forties crowd.”

“That sounds like fun. I’ll see if my new boyfriend wants to join.”

She swallowed. “Actually, I was thinking more of a support group for women who’d never been proposed to.”

“Sort of a Spinsters Anonymous?”

Melba frowned. “Spinsters is such an ugly word. I was thinking more of the Never Been Asked. We’d call ourselves the NBA for short.”

“That is such an interesting idea,” I said, and edged out the door. “You do realize, don’t you, that I wouldn’t qualify? Aaron may have been the slime on the sludge that sticks to the muck at the bottom of the pond, but he did ask me to marry him. He even gave me a ring.”

Melba smiled. “I’d be willing to make an exception in your case.”

“Thanks for everything,” I said, and sprinted to my car.

I dreaded going to Miller’s Feed Store. Elspeth Miller hates me.

Roy Miller, Elspeth’s husband, is a triple fifth cousin of mine, but I certainly don’t claim him. The official rumor has it that Roy beats Elspeth. Some of us, however, believe that it is Elspeth Rhinehart Miller who beats up on Roy. Elspeth is a German-German, not a Swiss-German like most of the Mennonites and Amish in the Hernia area. What’s more, she was baptized a Lutheran—as an infant no less! No Mennonite or Amishman can comprehend such a senseless act. Perhaps it was being splashed with all that water as a tiny baby that put Elspeth in such a foul mood.

One might have more respect for Roy if he didn’t allow Elspeth to push him around. A man should listen to his wife (didn’t Papa?), but he shouldn’t put up with hitting. No one should—not even a true pacifist like Roy. Sadly, the long-sleeved shirts that Roy habitually wears, even on the hottest days, are not a sign of his Mennonite modesty. What makes the whole thing seem even sadder is that Elspeth is a little bitty thing with a beaked nose and horn-rimmed glasses that flare out like butterfly wings. She seems about as dangerous as a swallowtail.

The Millers sell feed and farm equipment to Amish, Mennonite, and other farmers in the area. In addition, they also sell hard-to-find items like corrugated washboards and hand-operated ringers. There are also some “fancy” goods like blue-enameled cookware, black felt hats, bonnets, and even candy. Think of Miller’s Feed Store as an Amish Wal-Mart. It is, incidentally, Hernia’s largest employer.

But back to why Elspeth hates me. I can only guess it is because I have, upon occasion, stuck up for Roy. I do not, however, as Elspeth asserts, have “a ting for my man.”

Nonetheless, I tried to slip into the store unnoticed and headed straight for Roy, who was demonstrating a nifty little gadget that peeled, cored, and sliced an apple in a matter of seconds. Several Amish women were watching, wide-eyed.

“We can make good snitz with that,” said one.

“Dried apple slices,” another said, needlessly translating for me.

Roy saw me and handed the machine to the nearest shopper. “You can buy a cheaper one in Bedford,” he said, “but it won’t be as good.”

The women nodded. Roy had a reputation for telling the truth.

“Magdalena,” he said, and grabbing one of my elbows, steered me down a narrow aisle. Galvanized buckets of all sizes hung on one side, horse bridals and currycombs on the other. Satisfied we were alone, Roy released me. “You shouldn’t have come. Elspeth’s working today.”

“Then she’ll just have to get over it. This is a free country, and I can shop anywhere I please.”

“Please make it Bedford. You know what happened the last time she saw you.”

“I did not knock down that display of lantern globes. She did. And frankly, it’s stupid to stack glass like that.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but it was her idea.” Roy lowered his voice. “She better not see you today, Magdalena. She’s been on the warpath since she woke up. So, could you just buy what you came to buy, and then get out?”

I tried not to even glance at Roy’s arms, but it was no use. He was wearing long sleeves again. It was stifling in the store, so it had to be because he had something to hide. Although in all fairness, I suppose they could have been old bruises.