EIGHT

  After digesting what Toy had to say, along with four glazed doughnuts, I dropped the mail bag off at the post office. Then I pressed the pedal to the metal, in order to pick up my guests for their visit to the sausage source at the appointed time. The three Schmucker brothers were in the catbird’s seat. They’d already entertained several offers to do business with major distributors and were a handshake away from sealing a deal.

  For what it’s worth, the Schmucker brothers were exceptionally pious men, even by Amish standards, and would only have dealings with the outside world via an intermediary – a blood relative who had one very large foot planted firmly in the modern world, but who respected the old ways. This meant that the many offers that they received to buy their business were referred to me, and the burden of sifting through them, and selecting the most promising offers, was placed on my scrawny shoulders.

  However, as both a friend and relative of the Schmucker family, I had opened my big yap, and convinced them that the more options they had, the better the chances were that they found a good fit. So, I arranged for one last meeting with clients, only this time there would be four interested parties. One of the parties wasn’t even a potential buyer, but I chose him purely because I could – because I liked his name. Being the wealthy owner of a famous inn has its perks, you know.

  Anyway, while the Schmucker brothers were fine with this arrangement, not all of my guests were. This was apparent before we even got into the car.

  ‘I’m calling shotgun,’ Ducky Limehouse said. That meant he wished to ride up front with me.

  ‘Well, dear,’ I said, ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea, because someone might think that you’re my gigolo.’

  There was a period of shocked silence, followed by all four guests exchanging glances. Finally, Christine Landis spoke up.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d even know that word, Miss Yoder.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I know, dear,’ I said to her. ‘Why don’t you sit up front?’

  I made the offer to Christine Landis solely because she was such an unpleasant person. All I wanted was to get this show on the road, so to speak, and get these guests out of my hair. After this morning I was going to butt out helping my friends with their business ventures. In fact, I might even listen to the Babester’s pleas, and just shut down the PennDutch altogether. A month-long sail to the Antipodes (Australia and New Zealand) via Hawaii, Tahiti, Morea and Bora Bora might just be the ticket to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

  Christine Landis smiled. ‘Miss Yoder, I think that Miss Dooley should have the honour.’

  ‘I’m cool with that,’ Kathleen Dooley said.

  I smiled sweetly at everyone. ‘Now, who would like to volunteer to sit in the middle back seat?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Christine Landis said without a second’s hesitation.

  It’s at times like that I thank the Lord that I still have my natural teeth. Otherwise, I might have swallowed my dentures, or at least bruised my chin when it hit the driveway.

  ‘Then it’s settled, dears. Hop in. Time’s a-wastin’.’

  To my further astonishment, they seated themselves without further ado, and even buckled their seatbelts without having to be reminded more than twice. As the Schmucker brothers’ slaughtering house and meat processing plant was a fifteen-minute drive from my establishment, I decided to fill them in on a few details, and then give them an opportunity to ask questions.

  ‘Folks,’ I said, ‘there is nothing in this world that smells worse than a hog farm,’ I said.

  ‘Pardon me, ma’am,’ Ducky Limehouse said in his charming Deep South accent, ‘but I beg to differ. My Granddaddy Limehouse used to employ a gardener who ate Limburger cheese sandwiches for lunch. When I was around five or six, I asked him if I could have a taste. All he had to do was hold that sandwich up to my nose, and I thought that I would pass out. I reckon that Limburger cheese smells a sight worse than any hog farm.’

  Kathleen Dooley chuckled. ‘It’s Brevibacterium linens that produces that smell. That’s what is partly responsible for foot and body odour in humans.’

  ‘Ugh,’ Terry Tazewell said. ‘I never could stand to eat the stuff.’

  ‘Enough about cheese,’ I snapped. ‘My point is that the place smells awful, and if you’ve elected to take the entire tour, from where the hogs are raised to cellophane-wrapped package, one needs to have a pretty strong stomach.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ Christine Landis said from behind me. Her voice was soft and sweet. She was altogether a changed woman from the day before. It would behove me to discover her secret, for it has been suggested by more than one person that my edges could use a little smoothing. That, of course, is confidential information.

  ‘I will be fine as frog’s hair,’ Ducky Limehouse said resolutely.

  ‘How interesting,’ I said, ‘given that frogs don’t have any hair.’

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am, they do,’ Ducky said. ‘It’s just so fine that you can’t see it. It’s a Southern expression, by the way.’

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘But if one is feeling really fine,’ Ducky said, ‘then one is “fine as frog’s hair split three ways”.’

  ‘How quaint,’ Kathleen Dooley said.

  ‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘The Amish prefer not to have their pictures taken.’

  ‘Why not?’ Terry Tazewell said.

  ‘The reason that they don’t want their pictures taken is based on the Third Commandment. Do any of you remember what that says?’ After a telling silence, I continued. ‘It says that we are not to create any likeness of anything on earth.’

  ‘But doesn’t that mean a carved likeness?’ Kathleen Dooley asked.

  ‘Well, first it says a carved image, and then it says any likeness. Admittedly, it’s a bit confusing, since in One Kings, chapter six, verse twenty-nine there is a description of carved angels and palm trees decorating the inside of Solomon’s temple. At any rate, the Amish believe that a photograph is a forbidden image. Even the dolls that their children play with don’t have faces.’

  ‘No way!’ Kathleen Dooley said. ‘Where do they buy these dolls?’

  ‘They’re homemade,’ I said.

  ‘Do you think that they would sell me one of these dolls?’ Christine asked softly.

  ‘Will wonders never cease?’ I said under my breath. ‘Ask them nicely,’ I said aloud, ‘and they might.’

  ‘Miss Yoder,’ Terry Tazewell said, ‘you keep calling these animals hogs, but I thought pork sausages came from pigs.’

  ‘They do – sort of. In the United States a hog is a large pig, weighing over one hundred and twenty pounds, and ready for slaughter.’

  ‘And hence the name of the children’s story,’ Ducky Limehouse said.

  ‘Excuse me, dear?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s not called the Three Little Hogs, is it?’

  Kathleen Dooley laughed. ‘Can you imagine a mother playing with her baby’s toes and saying, “this little hog went to market”?’

  Then they all laughed briefly but didn’t actually speak again for the remainder of the drive out to the three Schmucker brothers’ farms, which were laid out in a row along a narrow dirt road. The first farm, managed by Solomon and his children, was where the animals were bred and raised. If you ask me, there is nothing that smells worse than pig manure, so I prayed that our visit there would be brief. The second farm was managed by the expectant father, Jacob, with the help of eight cousins. It was where the hogs were slaughtered, and was euphemistically known as the ‘processing’ plant. Believe me when I say this: Jacob’s operation stunk even worse than Solomon’s farm. The third location was the packaging plant, which was overseen by the youngest brother, Peter. At all three the brothers also farmed corn, which was their hogs’ primary diet.

  Except for Ducky, who was a tourist, the other guests were competitors, so I wasn’t surprised by their silence during the drive. Frankly, I was so grateful for it that I whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. But I shouldn’t even have whispered.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Kathleen Dooley asked as we turned up the lane to Solomon Schmucker’s hog farm.

  ‘I’m quite all right. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because your lips were quivering, and I thought I heard you trying to catch your breath.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Be a dear and reach into the glove box for some face masks. Take one, and then pass them back.’

  ‘I’ll pass them back,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure I won’t need one. In the circus we had multiple jobs, and one of mine was cleaning up after the elephants. Nothing bothers me.’

  Before I turned off the car, so that the doors would unlock, I donned a double layer of masks. A glance at the back seat informed me that not one of my guests had followed my advice. Oh, well, tough cookies then.

  When I turned off the engine my guests piled out, eager to be the first to meet Solomon Schmucker, the oldest of the three brothers. I slid out of the car quickly and locked it behind me. Not thirty seconds later they were pulling on the handles of my already locked car with one hand, with their free hand holding the top of their shirt or blouse up over their nose.

  ‘Put your masks on, you silly geese. Then hurry up and follow me. Solomon is waiting for us up by the pens. I’m sure he has a lot of interesting information to share about this particular breed, and what makes it so delectable. Why, it smells just yummy from here.’

  I glanced behind me to see that Ducky was striding back down the road, away from the hog farm, as fast as his legs could carry him. Even though the other three had donned their masks, they still hadn’t advanced any. Someone slightly more critical than I might even comment on the fact that they were staggering about like a trio of drunken penguins. I knew that they had really wanted to speak to all the brothers to pitch their offers, and they were counting on me to make a meeting with Peter, at the end, happen. But what was I to do, I ask you? Lasso them and drag them behind me, as I marched up to greet my waiting friend and kinsman? I think not.

  Instead, I trotted back to my car, opened all the doors, and got back behind the wheel.

  ‘OK, guys, hop back in. Visiting hours are over.’

  ‘What?’ Terry Tazewell said. ‘We can’t leave now. We haven’t even gotten the chance to say one word to Mr Schmucker!’

  ‘Au contraire, dear,’ I said. ‘You had your chance, and you blew it.’

  ‘Can’t you at least run up there and explain the situation for us?’ Kathleen Dooley begged.

  ‘Nooo, dear,’ I said. ‘I don’t have a dog in this hunt.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ she said.

  ‘It means,’ Terry Tazewell said, ‘that this isn’t her affair.’

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ I said. ‘Now buckle up,’ I barked.

  With that we were off. I drove at a good clip, but even then, it wasn’t until I was about a quarter of a mile down the road that I caught up with Ducky Limehouse. That young man had really been booking it. What’s more, he wasn’t even out of breath.

  ‘Care for a ride, stranger?’ I said, pulling up alongside him.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll go anywhere but to a hog farm.’

  ‘Climb in, son.’

  After I got back up to speed, I broke the bad news. ‘Sorry, Mr Limehouse, but we’re headed to farm number two. This is where they slaughter the hogs. If you folks thought the stench at the growing pens was unbearable, wait until you get a whiff of this place. That’s because you will smell not only their excrement, but their blood, offal, and their fear.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Ducky said. ‘Did you say fear?’

  ‘Oh yes, young man,’ I said. ‘The animals at the head of the line know what’s about to happen to them when they face the butcher’s knife. Then they relay this information to the others behind them. This phenomenon has been known to cause the whole herd to panic, producing hormones that causes their meat to have an “off” flavour.’

  ‘Ahem, Miss Yoder,’ Terry Tazewell said, ‘but that sounds like a load of manure.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I said archly. ‘Who would know more about livestock, you or me? Did you know that swine – that’s pigs and hogs – are omnivores? That means that they’ll literally eat just about anything, vegetable or protein. In fact, the wife of the Amish man whom you just met, Solomon, was eaten by some hogs.’

  ‘Ugh. No way,’ Christine Landis said. She sounded on the verge of tears.

  ‘Definitely way,’ I said. ‘She was feeding the hogs one afternoon when a thunderstorm came up and she was struck by lightning. That’s the theory, at any rate. Her husband was working at the slaughter – I mean processing – plant the next farm over, so he heard the strike, but assumed that his wife was safely inside the house. At any rate, when he returned home she wasn’t there, but he did find a few bits of her clothing and part of one boot in the hog pen.’

  ‘Do you expect us to believe that the pigs actually ate the woman?’ Ducky Limehouse asked.

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I hope her husband killed every last one of them,’ Terry Tazewell said.

  ‘Eventually,’ I said. ‘But you can’t fault the hogs; that’s how God made them.’

  ‘Stupid, disgusting creatures,’ Christine said. She spoke emphatically for the first time that morning.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘swine are not stupid. To the contrary, they are uncommonly intelligent creatures. People who have studied pigs say that they are even more intelligent than dogs, and possibly as smart as a three-year-old child.’

  ‘Come on, Miss Yoder,’ Terry Tazewell said. ‘That’s a bunch of bologna, pardon the pun.’

  Mr Tazewell’s cavalier attitude got me hot under my starched, if somewhat prudish collar. ‘You say that, sir, because you’ve never owned a pig. Do any of you own dogs?’

  ‘I own a standard poodle named Baklava,’ Terry Tazewell said.

  ‘Well, I dare say that if Baklava tasted like bacon, you might be tempted to fry her up for breakfast.’

  Everyone gasped, including me. Oh dear, I had gone too far. But it wasn’t so much my fault, as it was the fact that the Devil had set me up with Terry Tazewell’s bologna comment. I’m only human after all, and every now and then I do yield to temptation.

  ‘Get behind me, Satan,’ I said firmly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Terry Tazewell said. ‘Did you just call me Satan?’

  Ducky Limehouse snickered. ‘No, sir, she did not. She’s what we call a “Bible-beater” in the South. That means she takes the Bible literally, and most probably visualizes the Prince of Darkness actually sitting behind her now. Oops, I guess that would put him right in my lap.’

  ‘How exciting for you,’ Terry Tazewell said. ‘What does old Beelzebub feel like? I bet he feels hot to the touch. Is he burning your thighs?’ He guffawed, which I thought was extremely rude.

  ‘Speaking of unusual experiences,’ Kathleen Dooley said, ‘when I worked in the circus, I once sat in a gorilla’s lap. It wasn’t a real gorilla, of course, but a very large man in a gorilla costume, dressed up like King Kong. I was supposed to be Ann Darrow. Unfortunately, that act was short lived, because Big Jim, who played the gorilla, ran off with Walter after just three performances. The owner of the circus never could find someone as big as Jim again, except for Hairy Mary, and she refused to play an animal.’

  ‘How interesting,’ I said pleasantly.

  ‘Miss Yoder,’ Kathleen Dooley said, ‘was that supposed to be sarcasm?’

  ‘Absolutely not, dear. How could it be? I read an article that said that women were incapable of sarcasm. Believe me, I’m just grateful that you changed the subject. I am used to my family members mocking my staunch religious faith, but they do so lovingly, and know when to quit.’

  ‘Miss Yoder,’ Christine Landis said, ‘you are a bundle of contradictions.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. I’ll take that as a compliment. Now folks, you have a decision to make. Do you wish to skip both the slaughterhouse and the packaging plant, and proceed directly to the office, or are they both still on our agenda?’

  ‘What?’ Ducky Limehouse said. ‘Do you mean to say that we could skip the horror show and proceed directly to “Go”?’

  ‘What is a “Go”, Mr Limehouse, anyway? I said that we could proceed directly to the office.’

  ‘He was making a Monopoly reference, you twit,’ Christine Landis said.

  ‘Oh no,’ Kathleen Dooley said. ‘She’s back. The witch from Chicago came out of hibernation.’

  ‘Straight to the office,’ Ducky Limehouse said emphatically. ‘No one here is interested in the packaging plant.’

  ‘Now you wait just one cotton-picking minute, dahling,’ Christine Landis said. It was clear that she was mocking his Southern accent. ‘I’m interested in the processing and packaging plants. The Schmucker Brothers hand-produced brand sells for a premium in the deli section of my stores. I’d like to see how it’s done. Donald Duck here is merely a tourist, and as you might say, Miss Yoder, has no dog in the hunt. So, I say that we take a vote – but only amongst us three business owners.’

  A glance in my rear-view mirror informed me that Ducky Limehouse was not amused. His face had reddened, and a vein the size of the Chunnel had popped up along his right temple. It was up to me to intercede before the poor man died of an aneurism. The last thing that I needed was to have an Apparition-American as a permanent passenger in my car, particularly one who’d been literally killed by a Yankee. It’s a sad fact that the Civil War is still being fought after one hundred and fifty years, but my automobile was not going to be a memorial to a lost cause.

  ‘There is no need to vote!’ I cried. ‘We are going to the processing plant next, then the packaging plant, and that is that. I brought enough masks for you to double up – you can even wear three. I find that when I start getting queasy, reciting scripture verses always helps. For instance, you could try recalling some of the lesser-known passages, say from Second Chronicles. Wasn’t that Donald Trump’s favourite book of the Bible?’

  ‘Miss Yoder,’ Ducky Limehouse said, ‘sarcasm does not become you.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25