Operation Bonnet Page 6

  “I’m fairly persistent,” I said. “And I wouldn’t make fun of them or try to hijack any buggies.”

  Professor Moss looked confused. “I’m afraid, Nellie, the only way I can help you learn about the Amish is through written sources.” She swiveled in her chair to the bookcase behind her desk. “This,” she said, letting a tome drop onto the papers in front of me, “is the definitive work on Amish history in America. I would start with that.”

  I paged through the book, ready to fight fire with fire. “Ah, yes, Kraybill,” I said. “I’ve come across him many times in my preliminary research. What do you think of his take on the schism with Menno Simons?” Let us give thanks in one accord for the glories of Internet research.

  The fire worked. Moss looked like she might cry or dance, neither of which I wanted to witness, but both had the potential of helping a girl out. “Oh, you’ve hit on the classic discussion, Nellie. Very bright of you indeed. Illuminating, in fact.”

  If she only knew.

  “I have witnessed the effects of this schism many times, even in the Schrock family. The matriarch, Grandmother Mary, has been the most talkative with me, and she has often mentioned the moral concerns she has for the Mennonite church.”

  “Understandable. Look at what they’ve allowed in: the car driving, the zippers, the pursuit of higher education. Pretty much morality slackers.”

  “Well, of course, I have no issue with those activities, but the Amish do, particularly the Old Order to which our Springville neighbors belong.”

  “This Granny Mary, does she just sit down and talk with you over coffee?”

  “It’s Grandmother Mary, and she rarely sits down, to tell you the truth.” Professor Moss began rummaging around in a drawer. “She talks with me while she bakes. I’ve been compiling a database of Old Order Amish recipes, which is the only way I’ve found to get a woman within the community to speak frankly.” She shrugged. “I’m not a cook and don’t care to be, but if I have to roll out pastry dough for three hours to get a woman to talk with me about what it’s like to be Amish and female in the twenty-first century, doggone it, I will.”

  Pastry, I thought with a small smile. The great equalizer.

  “Here she is,” Professor Moss said. She held up a photo for me to see. “Grandmother Mary.”

  I looked long and hard before speaking. “Her back, you mean.”

  “Well, yes, of course.” Professor Moss snatched the photo back and took another look herself. “She’d never let me take a photo of her face. This one was snapped as she was walking to the barn for eggs.” She winked at me, and I felt pity surge through me. The woman had a long way to go before tooting her own stealth horn.

  I gathered the reference book into my arms and stood. “I’ll start by reading this.” I thumped it once with my index finger, and the professor winced. “And,” I added, “I’ll take good care of it. Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” she said, recovered from the book abuse. “I’m happy to help. You keep me posted on what you discover in those pages, Nellie. It just might change your academic life forever, as it did mine.”

  I waved and returned a cheery smile, already feeling my mouth water for a healthy slice of strudel.

  8

  Rules of the Game

  I handed Amos a third napkin. He tucked it under the malt but continued slurping. When he plunked the empty glass onto the table, the chocolate had formed a foamy ’stache on his upper lip.

  “The chocolate malts are super-duper.” Against my advice, Amos had been watching a marathon of Gidget reruns. “I can’t refrain from eating too much of them. Do you always love the very, very cold things?”

  “Um, sure. Not like dry ice or anything that drastic, but I can appreciate a Coke on the rocks.”

  “The Coke is also better frozen. And you can put inside the Coke glass a chunk of ice cream. Not homemade ice cream but ice cream that comes on big trucks and has been frozen for weeks, maybe months.”

  An interesting take on food preservatives. I’d never realized their romance.

  “Right. Well, you go ahead and tackle your second malt,” I said, watching Amos tug on the next frosted glass in the lineup. If he wasn’t able to keep from mixing business with pleasure, I’d have to tow that rope alone. “I wanted to update you on my progress with Operation Bonnet.”

  Amos scrunched his nose over the glass and a poof of cool air rose from the ice cream. “This is a dumb name.”

  I bristled. “No, it’s not. It’s clever.” It was.

  “This is not groovy, using bonnet in the name. It is too obvious to other people. What about …?” He paused to take a slow sip in his straw. “What about Operation Moondoggie?”

  I stared. “Please tell me you are joking and would like to apologize for calling my idea dumb.”

  He shook his head. “This is the serious, best name. Moondoggie is Gidget’s name for her boyfriend. A secret code name. It is a perfect relationship: Gidget is to Moondoggie as I am to Katie.” His expression was grave, even as he said the word moondoggie twice in one monologue.

  I sighed. Who was I to crush the romantic hopes of one wayfaring Amish malt drinker? “Fine. But we’ll call it Operation M for short.”

  “Fine.” He looked pleased. “This is a choice you will not be regretting. So,” he said, sitting up at attention, “what is the news you have for me?”

  I pushed away my plate, recently emptied of a Reuben and fries. Frank’s Diner on the east side made the best of both, and it was my pleasure to partake, even if I had to witness malt inhalation.

  “Let’s cut to it,” I said. I leaned over the table slightly and wanted with every fiber of my being to use my gravelly voice, but the room vibrated with conversation, banging flatware, and calls from the kitchen. I settled for eye slits. “I’m going in. I’m going to meet Katie.”

  “Oh, this is very fast moving.” Amos swallowed hard. He cracked each knuckle on his right hand, one by one, so slowly I wanted to reach over and finish it for him. “Are you certain this plan is effective?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, bravado inching its way into my voice. “I have a contact and will be using the connection I make with her to gather info on Katie and John.”

  Amos’s eyes widened. “Who is this contact?”

  I lowered my voice, as if some unsuspecting Amish person was hiding under our booth. “Mary Schrock.”

  Amos froze and then burst into laughter. “Grandmother Mary? She—she—” he started but then broke off again in what can only be described as an undignified man-giggle.

  I waited, watching as he doubled over onto the table, nose inches from the sparkly Formica. “When you get control of yourself, I’d love to hear why you’re laughing.” I used one of Amos’s napkins to brush crumbs into a little pile. “While we wait, I’d like to remind you I’m here to help, but since you seem to think my ideas are inferior.…”

  “I will apologize,” he said, taking a deep breath. Aggressively mocking a person takes it out of you. “You are not inferior. It is only that Mary Schrock”—and he nearly started back in with the laughing—“well, you will see her. She will show you an interesting representing of the Amish.” He let out one last chortle, and I found him convincingly unattractive.

  I sniffed. “She’s a grandma, and she belongs to a religious group that values hard work, simplicity, and keeping to itself. How interesting can she be?”

  Amos smiled and seemed to look through me as he spoke. “I will want to hear of your time with her. The Amish are not all like the pretty pictures on calendars. Or that movie Witness with Indiana Jones.”

  “Well, of course I know that.” I rolled my eyes because I was feeling just that insulted. “I’d say any nostalgic notion about that movie fully evaporated when we found out Kelly McGillis bats for the other team.”


  Amos gasped, and I nodded in sympathy. It had come as a shock for so many Top Gun fans.

  “Do you mean,” he said, motionless across from me, “that she is now a baseball player? Can a woman do that?”

  “I mean …” I said slowly, then retreated. No need to be the one to drop the bomb. He’d have enough Access Hollywood moments ahead of him now that he was English. “I mean that movies are never honest representations of the truth. I’m assuming Granny looks and acts nothing like Kelly. Or Harrison.” I turned to a fresh page in my notebook and poised a pen above the blank space. “Anything else I need to know before heading back to your old stomping grounds?”

  “Hmm.” He dipped a french fry into the malt glass. “Many things you will understand when you are there. For now, you should remember not to wear any clothes that look like you are a prostitute.”

  I raised an eyebrow and waited.

  He indicated with a nod toward the notebook that I should be writing this down.

  I cleared my throat. “Amos, you’ll find that women in the English world don’t really like being compared to prostitutes. For their clothes or for any other reason.”

  Color spread on his cheeks. “I am sorry. I do not mean you are a prostitute. You are a Magnum PI, and you can hit men with much force in your fists. I only mean to say that you cannot wear things that show your body or the shape of your body. This is for husbands only to see.”

  “Right,” I said, making a note. “Bod for hubby alone.”

  He continued. “And you should not wear this.” He pointed to my lips. “No shiny liquids.”

  “Lip gloss?” My mother would be so saddened. It had taken her years to get me to wear the stuff, and now that I was finally starting to tolerate it, I had a great reason to leave all shiny liquids at home. “Got it. What else?”

  “You should not try to physically injure other people.” He stared at me with solemn eyes.

  “Amos,” I said, trying to be patient, “I only attacked out of self-defense.”

  He shrugged. “If you punch people, they will not let you come back. The Amish are pacifists.”

  I sighed. “Any other pearls of wisdom?”

  He thought for a moment. “Do not take photos. This will also get you expelled. No cussing words, no musical instruments, no electric appliances.”

  I wrote for a moment. “So I’ll leave home my f-bombs, my clarinet, and my blender.” I shut the notebook and stood, dropping a twenty on the table to pay for our lunch. “If you think of anything else, call me before Tuesday afternoon. That’s when I go to the Schrock farm for the first time.”

  He looked past me, face drawn in thought. “You might see one of my sisters or Katie walking along the road by the Schrock house. There is an orchard beside there where we used to go.”

  I watched his face. His eyes shone with memories, a bit like Nona’s during a good story. I put my hand on his shoulder as I passed. He sighed deeply, and I knew I could leave without saying good-bye.

  I got back to the golf course as Tank was hammering a sign onto a tree by the cart corral.

  “Hey, Tank,” I said as I came up behind him. I read over his shoulder, “No Chewing Tobacco Allowed On CARTS or COURSE! Wow,” I said. “Did you have that custom-made?”

  “You’d better BELIEVE it.” He squatted down and retrieved his box of nails. “You’d think I wouldn’t have to MAKE a sign, but I’m not cleaning out any more TABACKY from my cup holders!” He hooked his thumb through a belt loop and took in his handiwork. “Born in BARNS, some people. And it makes a man sick and TIRED.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. We began walking toward the clubhouse. “Listen, before I forget, I saw Amos at lunch, and he wanted me to thank you again for giving him the afternoon off. Said it was the nicest thing any employer’s ever done for him.”

  Tank shook his head. He held the door for me, and I headed to the front counter. “You know what I think?” Tank’s voice dropped to a scratchy whisper.

  I waited.

  “I think those Amish kids have a heckuva time growing up. I think that Amos has worked himself near to DEATH and that’s why he escaped.” Tank was never one to deny himself the pleasure of dramatic narrative. The man tsked. “And I’ve heard they don’t BELIEVE in birthday parties! Not even for children!”

  “Um, maybe you’re confusing the Amish with Jehovah’s Witnesses. They’re the ones who aren’t into holidays.”

  “What?” Tank looked dismayed. “Michael JACKSON was a Jehovah’s Witness. Nobody ever gave him a BIRTHDAY party?” He shook his head and rubbed his close-cropped gray hair. “No wonder that kid was MESSED UP.”

  The bell over the front screen door trembled, announcing the arrival of a family of five. Dad and the oldest, a gangly girl of about eight years, headed straight for the vending machines. The mother, who looked like she hadn’t slept very well for seven years, herded twin boys of around kindergarten age toward me.

  “Excuse me, miss, do you have a public restroom?”

  Both of the kids were hopping in place.

  “In the back, first door on your right.”

  She trotted after the boys as they sped toward the back, knocking over a half-mannequin and a golf bag on their way. I cringed to think of the animal-like markings I was sure to find around the toilet seat when I went to clean it that afternoon.

  “Thanks now,” the mom said when they returned an impressive two minutes later. She adjusted her visor and issued a slew of uninterrupted commands aiming to gather her brood into the waiting cart. Not one of the children appeared to be listening to her words, but somehow, they all circled first the store and then the cart enough times that momentary weariness propelled them into a more submissive state, and they were off to play eighteen. I watched them drive in a crooked trajectory toward the first hole and felt myself counting down to Tuesday and the first day of my real life.

  Two hours later, a wall of dark clouds began a stately procession across the western sky. Tank and I stood by his tabacky sign, musing about when the storm would hit full force, when the family of five came careening over the hill by the ninth green. I could hear at least two children wailing. The dad was in the driver’s seat and taking a corner at a speed not appropriate in an electric vehicle. The mother had one hand over her eyes, head tipped slightly forward, the other hand gripping the side of the cart with such strength, I could see the whites of her knuckles from forty yards away.

  “I know, Dan,” she was saying as they neared the clubhouse. “But there’s such a thing as quality time.”

  Dan braked so hard the tires skidded. He looked up at Tank’s disapproving stare and mumbled an apology. “Josie, Jordy, Johnny, in the car.” The kids, two of them sniffling, tumbled out of the cart and dragged their feet on the pavement as they walked to a teal minivan.

  “Thanks a lot,” Mom said to Tank. She followed her husband and called over her shoulder, “Lovely course. We’ll be back!”

  The husband muttered something under his breath, and Tank whistled. “Rough round. Those two SHORT ones might be too young to appreciate the game.”

  I nodded. “Some of us never get to that level of appreciation.”

  Tank turned to me. “Nellie Augusta Lourdes Monroe, it is nothing but a TRAGEDY that the daughter of Clive Monroe doesn’t care for the game of golf. And the worst part?” He pointed one cigar-like finger at me. “The worst part is that I’ve SEEN your swing, and it’s a DEAD RINGER for your father’s! A little fine tuning and YOU’D be a STAR!”

  I could see the words pained him, visions of clean putting and birdie-worthy chipping out of the rough prancing around his head. “Sorry, Tank,” I said. “I identify more with the wailing twin boys than with you and Pop. You’ve tried your best to convince me otherwise, and if you couldn’t do it, Payne Stewart himself would fall short.�
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  “Oh, now don’t bring up Payne.” He bit his lower lip, and I knew if we took that conversation down the road often traveled, he’d be in tears within minutes.

  “How about this?” I clapped my hands to distract him. It sounds a bit like a preschool teacher, I know, but believe me, no one wants to see Tank cry. A lot of sinus fluid is involved. “How about we head back in the clubhouse and start inventory while we wait out the storm?” I held the door for him.

  “Go home,” he said. “I’ll finish up here and lock up early. NO one will be heading out to play in this weather.”

  “You sure?” I asked. I watched his face to make sure the Payne story wasn’t still looming in his thoughts. Tank looked all the part of a brute, but he was the biggest, gray-domed teddy bear on the planet. I didn’t want to leave him feeling down.

  “I’m POSITIVE, young lady.” He smiled a goofy grin. “I do NOT want to see that head of hair after a rain storm.” He shuddered for effect, but it looked more like a shimmy.

  “Nice moves,” I said. I punched my time card and turned when Tank said nothing. He was waiting for me to see him dancing a mix of the Cabbage Patch and the Sprinkler next to the front counter. Don’t visualize it.

  “Bye, Tank.” I shook my head but couldn’t contain a laugh.

  “I’m KNOWN for my moves,” he sang as he Cabbage Patched me right out the door.

  9

  Table Talk

  I stopped going to the talented-and-gifted classes about the same time I started cooking. Once I figured out how much time teachers wasted during the school day, I gave up homework entirely. Instead, I filled the hours between school and bed with reading everything Robert Ludlum wrote, going on walks with Nona, or talking on the teen line with Matt. With the advantage of maturity, I now see I was extremely bored and in need of a challenge. At the time, though, I just thought I was hungry.

  Annette might not have known how to toss her own salad, but she did subscribe to highbrow periodicals, most notably Fine Cooking, Gourmet, and Bon Appétit. I began paging through them after school, holding them in human hands after they’d spent years in artfully arranged neglect on the coffee table. It was during one of the teen-line conversations that I first discovered the world outside catered meals.