Getting shot at by a stranger, and then being falsely accused of lust in the laurels, could make anyone a little bit crabby. But Freni has a way of needling under my skin that not even Susannah can come close to duplicating. There are times when Freni Hostetler and a bad case of chiggers have everything in common. So irritated was I that I forgot I had been on my way to hire Freni back.
“No, you cannot have your job back,” I said angrily. “Not until you apologize for your disgusting accusations, not to mention your lack of general concern.” Mose turned wisely away and headed back down the path.
“In that case, I quit,” said Freni.
“You can’t quit!” I screamed. “You haven’t been rehired, so you can’t quit.”
“And not only do I quit,” hissed Freni, “but I refuse to come back to work until you apologize for having fired me in the first place!”
“I didn’t fire you, Freni. You quit, remember? Or is your memory on its way out too?”
“Your mama would turn over in her grave if she could hear how you speak to me!”
Poor Mama seemed to get more exercise dead than she ever did alive. “Leave Mama out of this,” I cried. And then I yielded to temptation. I sank as low as I’ve ever sunk and will probably ever sink again. “Go back home and boss your daughter-in-law Barbara around. See if you can drive her as crazy as you do me.”
I whirled around before I had a chance to look at Freni’s face and stomped on down the path after Mose. Mama was undoubtedly spinning like a top, but at the moment I didn’t care. Anyway, she had no right to die and leave me in the first place. If Mama hadn’t gone and died under a pile of milk-soaked sneakers, Freni Hostetler wouldn’t be in my face so much and my life would be that much easier. Feeling thusly cheated, I muttered one of the cuss words I’ve heard Susannah say and gave Mama an extra spin.
Chapter 13
Just as I’d thought, Susannah hadn’t got very far at all. About a mile down the road the car began to sputter and stall, and half a mile later it quit altogether. Susannah simply left it by the side of the road, walked home, and crawled back into bed. That’s where I found her when I got back from my brush with death in the woods.
“Buy out Thom McAn’s already?” I asked pleasantly. Susannah clamped a pillow over her ears. I think Shnookums might have been somewhere inside the pillow case because I heard a faint yelp.
“Go away, Mags. Just leave me alone.”
“Where’s the car?”
“I didn’t even make it past Speicher Creek. You knew it was out of gas, didn’t you?”
“Well, I thought you’d at least make it into Hernia.”
“Very funny. Now leave me alone!”
It’s no fun teasing Susannah when she refuses to fight back. I settled for telling her about my near-death experience in the woods. Of course she didn’t believe me. Her eyes rolled so far back in her head that she would have seen her brain, had there been one to see.
After combing the leaves out of my hair and doctoring my scratches, I cleared off the dining room table and washed all the morning’s dishes. Then I went to the tool shed by the barn and got the jerry can of gasoline I keep there for the riding mower.
I am not helpless like Susannah. Maybe it’s because I’m older, but Daddy taught me not only how to put gas in the car, but how to change a flat tire. In no time at all the car was purring like a kitten, and I was on my way into Hernia.
Hernia, Pennsylvania, is a nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit there. What I mean is, folks who live in and around Hernia are by and large fond of the place and satisfied with their lives. That Hernia lacks commercial and cultural amenities is a plus for them. Visitors, on the other hand, tend to find Hernia boring at best.
The people of Hernia have not capitalized on their Amish and Mennonite neighbors as some other communities have. There are no gift shops selling Pennsylvania Dutch kitsch, and no model farms recreating authentic Amish life. The PennDutch, I’m proud to say, comes the closest to exploiting this unique heritage, and my operation is small potatoes compared to what I’ve seen up near Lancaster.
Of course, a lot of English live in Hernia too. Besides the First Mennonite Church on North Elm Street, there are the Methodist and Presbyterian churches, and even a tiny little congregation of devout worshippers out toward the turnpike who call themselves the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah.
Susannah and one of her boyfriends attended church there one Sunday just as a joke. They both entered the building on crutches, intending to fake dramatic recoveries during the faith-healing part of the service. Much to everyone’s surprise they were healed, at least for a spell, of their penchant for practical jokes.