Read Online The Hand that Rocks the Ladle by Tamar Myers - Free Book Online
Authors: Tamar Myers
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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
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
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