meant on TV.”
“I don’t watch television.”
“Never?”
“Well,” I swallowed guiltily, “I used to watch reruns of Green Acres on my sister’s set, but they took that offthe air about a year ago. Since then I haven’t found anything worth watching.”
“Good one!”
I struggled with a bite of salami. I buy the kind with casings, not only because it is more economical, but because it is made locally by one of our Amish, and exceptionally good. At any rate, Darlene had forgotten to remove the skin.
“Miss Yoder, do you know the names of the girls’ basketball coaches at any of Hernia’s high schools?”
I finally got the casing out. It was like flossing with a piece of pig gut.
“We have only one high school, dear, and it doesn’t have a girls’ coach. Miss Betty Quiring is the girls’ physical education teacher, if that’s any help.”
“Quiring?”
I spelled the name for her. “But mind your Ps and Qs around her. She likes to pull ears.”
“You mean she makes things up?”
“No, I meant that literally. The woman has a thumb and forefinger like a vise. When a girl misbehaves, or even just doesn’t pay attention, Miss Quiring will pull her ears.” I patted my left ear. “She only had to do that to me once.”
“She was your gym teacher?”
I patted my bun, which has yet to see a single gray hair. “Thank you, dear, but I’m not that young. Miss Quiring pulled my ear last Sunday in church.”
Darlene giggled. “Do you have her phone number?”
Her request reminded me painfully of Gabe. “Yes, I’ll give it to you in just a minute. But first, do you know if there were any calls for me, say in the last hour or so?”
She shook her head. “The others ate earlier, and then went out to play horseshoes. Then I think they took a walk. Funny, but they have this instant friend thing going—even the weird one from California. At any rate, I’ve been inside the whole time and haven’t heard the phone ring.”
“Thanks, dear.” I wrote down Betty Quiring’s number, without referring to a directory.
“Oh, you know it by heart?”
“I’ve had occasion to call her in the past. But it wasn’t me who made all those prank phone calls between two and three in the morning. Well, not all of them, at any rate.” What can I say, my conscience got the better of me.
“Like I said before, Miss Yoder, you’re a real hoot.”
I stood. My soaking water had gone stone cold.
“Well, I’m turning in for the night,” I said.
“So early?”
“I like to read. Mysteries mostly. You might want to try Selma Eichler, Mignon Ballard, and Carolyn Hart. Anyway, breakfast is at eight sharp, but since you’re participating in A.L.P.O., I’ll expect you to report at seven-thirty to set the table.”
“No problem.”
I dried my feet on a dishtowel, spread it carefully across the dish drainer to dry, and toddled off to bed. I will admit now that it was a stupid thing to do. What sort of mother—and an innkeeper is just that—goes to bed when her children are still out and about? And what sort of lover—for that’s how I hoped to think of myself—would fall asleep before she’s had a chance to clear up a big misunderstanding?
Magdalena Yoder, that’s who.
13
I slept like a teenager, rather than a baby. True, I’m as barren as the Gobi Desert and will never see a baby of my own, but from what I hear, they wake up frequently, requiring attention at both ends. But I’ve been a teenager, and my sister Susannah was one for almost thirty years. I know from personal experience that teenagers can sleep like hibernating bears, and that’s just how I slept.
It wasn’t my alarm that woke me from such a sound sleep, but Freni. She was shaking me, hard and persistently, which added to my confusion.
“Not now,” I moaned, “I have a headache.”
“Ach! Magdalena, how you talk!”
I struggled to a sitting position, scraping enough crust from my eyes to make a small pie. “What is
“I don’t watch television.”
“Never?”
“Well,” I swallowed guiltily, “I used to watch reruns of Green Acres on my sister’s set, but they took that offthe air about a year ago. Since then I haven’t found anything worth watching.”
“Good one!”
I struggled with a bite of salami. I buy the kind with casings, not only because it is more economical, but because it is made locally by one of our Amish, and exceptionally good. At any rate, Darlene had forgotten to remove the skin.
“Miss Yoder, do you know the names of the girls’ basketball coaches at any of Hernia’s high schools?”
I finally got the casing out. It was like flossing with a piece of pig gut.
“We have only one high school, dear, and it doesn’t have a girls’ coach. Miss Betty Quiring is the girls’ physical education teacher, if that’s any help.”
“Quiring?”
I spelled the name for her. “But mind your Ps and Qs around her. She likes to pull ears.”
“You mean she makes things up?”
“No, I meant that literally. The woman has a thumb and forefinger like a vise. When a girl misbehaves, or even just doesn’t pay attention, Miss Quiring will pull her ears.” I patted my left ear. “She only had to do that to me once.”
“She was your gym teacher?”
I patted my bun, which has yet to see a single gray hair. “Thank you, dear, but I’m not that young. Miss Quiring pulled my ear last Sunday in church.”
Darlene giggled. “Do you have her phone number?”
Her request reminded me painfully of Gabe. “Yes, I’ll give it to you in just a minute. But first, do you know if there were any calls for me, say in the last hour or so?”
She shook her head. “The others ate earlier, and then went out to play horseshoes. Then I think they took a walk. Funny, but they have this instant friend thing going—even the weird one from California. At any rate, I’ve been inside the whole time and haven’t heard the phone ring.”
“Thanks, dear.” I wrote down Betty Quiring’s number, without referring to a directory.
“Oh, you know it by heart?”
“I’ve had occasion to call her in the past. But it wasn’t me who made all those prank phone calls between two and three in the morning. Well, not all of them, at any rate.” What can I say, my conscience got the better of me.
“Like I said before, Miss Yoder, you’re a real hoot.”
I stood. My soaking water had gone stone cold.
“Well, I’m turning in for the night,” I said.
“So early?”
“I like to read. Mysteries mostly. You might want to try Selma Eichler, Mignon Ballard, and Carolyn Hart. Anyway, breakfast is at eight sharp, but since you’re participating in A.L.P.O., I’ll expect you to report at seven-thirty to set the table.”
“No problem.”
I dried my feet on a dishtowel, spread it carefully across the dish drainer to dry, and toddled off to bed. I will admit now that it was a stupid thing to do. What sort of mother—and an innkeeper is just that—goes to bed when her children are still out and about? And what sort of lover—for that’s how I hoped to think of myself—would fall asleep before she’s had a chance to clear up a big misunderstanding?
Magdalena Yoder, that’s who.
13
I slept like a teenager, rather than a baby. True, I’m as barren as the Gobi Desert and will never see a baby of my own, but from what I hear, they wake up frequently, requiring attention at both ends. But I’ve been a teenager, and my sister Susannah was one for almost thirty years. I know from personal experience that teenagers can sleep like hibernating bears, and that’s just how I slept.
It wasn’t my alarm that woke me from such a sound sleep, but Freni. She was shaking me, hard and persistently, which added to my confusion.
“Not now,” I moaned, “I have a headache.”
“Ach! Magdalena, how you talk!”
I struggled to a sitting position, scraping enough crust from my eyes to make a small pie. “What is
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