The Hand that Rocks the Ladle by Tamar Myers

tines of Elspeth’s pitchfork.
    “Ouch!”
    Fortunately for me, Elspeth was engaged in a conversation with a customer, and her grip on the fork was loose. Unfortunately for Elspeth, my bony elbow knocked the fork out of her hand, and true to its name, it pitched. The heavy scoop brought the tines down on the tip of Elspeth’s black brogan, while the handle swung up, hitting her chin.
    Elspeth screamed bloody murder, all the while hopping about like a one-legged chicken on a hot asphalt road. For a heart-stopping moment I thought I may have done her serious harm.
    “Call 911 again,” I wailed miserably.
    The Amish woman Elspeth had been talking to stared at me, her eyes as big as snitz turnovers.
    “Never mind, I’ll do it myself.”
    But before I could move, the swinging metal doors parted and Melvin burst on the scene. Alas, he didn’t seem at all surprised.
    “What did you do this time, Yoder?”
    “Me? I didn’t do anything.”
    Elspeth froze in mid-hop. “Magdalena tried to kill me, that’s what she did. Look!” She pointed first to her chin, which sprouted a nice little tuft of hair, but no bruise as far as I could see. “And there!” Elspeth, who was really quite agile for a woman her age, grabbed her right foot and raised it almost chest level.
    I, for one, tried to focus on Elspeth’s foot, and not her unmentionables which, incidentally, could stand a good bleaching. To be honest, there was a small indentation in the leather of her shoe, just above the spot where her big toe should be, but it was really nothing to get upset about.
    “A little shoe polish, and who’s going to notice the difference?” I said in a reassuring voice.
    “Arrest that woman!” Elspeth screeched. Balancing on one bandy leg, she unlaced her brogan, removed it and the sock, and searched in vain for a wound.
    I was shocked by the state of Elspeth’s foot. “You really should trim your nails, dear.”
    “Your foot looks all right to me,” Melvin said, obviously much relieved. Even a man with half a brain would want to stay clear of a fight between Elspeth and me.
    “But she tried to kill me!”
    “Nonsense, dear,” I said calmly. “You were the one holding the weapon. Anna,” I said to our Amish witness, “you saw it happen. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
    “Ach!” Anna squawked and fled from the store.
    “You see? She doesn’t even think answering the question is worth her time. Well, I’ve got to go too.” I trotted after Anna, fully expecting to be tackled by Elspeth.
    Much to my surprise, she made no move to stop me.
     
    Melvin and Susannah live in a modest, aluminum-sided home on the south end of Hernia. This is a new neighborhood of blue-collar folks, and bears the lofty, but nonsensical name Foxcroft. In my dictionary a croft is either a small, enclosed field adjoining a house, or a small farm worked by tenants. It has nothing to do with rows of identical homes on postage-stamp lots.
    Since all the homes on Susannah’s street, Foxhaven, look the same, and all the unimaginatively planted yards are in their infancy, I was forced to pay attention to house numbers. Unfortunately for me, the builder of this subdivision bought his numerals from the same company that supplies the last line of letters on eye charts. Fortunately, however, Susannah’s blinds were open, and on my third pass I noticed the hot pink drapes. I never did see the 666 that was supposedly tacked to the right of the front door.
    As it was already well into the afternoon, I was pretty sure I would catch my sister awake. And no, she doesn’t hold down a night job. Susannah and daylight have just never really gotten along. Maybe it is because she was born at night. Who knows? But even as a baby Susannah kept midnight hours.
    Frankly, I think sleeping past eight in the morning is a sin. The Good Lord created sunrise and sunset to tell us when to get up, and when to go to bed, respectively. Not the other way around. And for those of us