As the World Churns

by Tamar Myers

  The Bible commands us not to bear false witness against our neighbors: in other words, we are not supposed to accuse them of something of which they are not guilty. Nowhere in the big ten does it say “thou shalt not lie.” The way I see it, the Good Lord gives us a great deal more latitude than we are commonly taught to believe. To not take advantage of this generous state of affairs is to be downright ungrateful. Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, I chose my words carefully.

  “As I’m sure you all know by now, Doc Shafor—the man who was mugged in the barn—was one of the judges,” I said. “He’s a veterinarian with a great deal of experience examining udders.”

  “Your point, please,” said Vance Brown. As a modern dairyman, the odds were that Vance had seen a lot more udders in one day than Doc had in his lifetime. After all, Doc’s specialty was horses.

  “What if I were to say that he confided in me that one cow in particular stood out head and shoulders above the rest?” That was a hypothetical question, and not even a lie, much less a broken commandment.

  Dick Pearlmutter, who’d been standing with one foot on the running board of his truck, stepped off and approached me. “Are you saying that the competition is still a go?”

  Frankly, I’d been so busy worrying about my elderly friend, that I hadn’t even thought about the competition—okay, so I hadn’t thought about it a lot. Contrary to some reports, I am only human. But during my fleeting thoughts, it had occurred to me that the best way to honor Doc, and thwart his assailant, was to continue as best as we could, as if the assault had never taken place. Of course I needed to find a judge ASAP, but even in a very small farming community like ours, that would hardly be a problem.

  “Surely you jest, Mr. Pearlmutter,” I said, and forced an agreeable smile.

  “But isn’t it too late to find a replacement judge?”

  “Nonsense, dear. In Hernia, connoisseurs of bovine beauty are a dime a dozen.”

  Harry Harmon turned to his brother. “I still think we should head back home, before something like what happened to that old man happens to one of us.”

  “You won’t be getting refunds—not for your rooms or your stable fees.”

  “Then we’ll sue,” Jane said.

  Gertie Fuselburger shook her dyed head vigorously. “I’m afraid that would be useless, Mrs. Pearlmutter,” she said. “I read Miss Yoder’s contract, and it’s ironclad. You did read it, dear, didn’t you?”

  “No contract is ironclad, you old biddy. We’ll hire the best lawyer on the East Coast.”

  I am proud to say that my husband stepped up to the plate. “Hey, watch the name-calling.”

  “And you don’t get to speak to my wife that way,” Dick said. I must say that for a former stockbroker, he looked remarkably, and worrisomely, fit. That is the problem with the trend these days of providing exercise equipment at the office. A white-collar worker is supposed to be a ninety-seven-pound weakling incapable of slinging a calf over his shoulder.

  “Oh yeah?” the Babester said. “How about the way you’ve all been treating my wife? Her oldest and dearest friend is lying in the ICU, and what does she find when she finally gets back home from the hospital? Renegers, that’s what.”

  Harry turned to his brother. “Did he just use a racial epithet?”

  Sensing that bedlam was about to ensue, I flapped my arms and crowed like a rooster. That got their attention. I’m pretty good at crowing, if I do say so myself. So good in fact that a real rooster, my beloved Chanticleer II, responded in kind, even though it was still the dead of night.

  Gertie Fuselburger, bless her fossilized heart, clapped her hands with glee. “Oh, Miss Yoder, everything you do is positively delightful.”

  “I think Miss Yoder might be crazy,” Candy Brown said.

  When no one, not even Gabe, jumped in to contradict her, I knew it was time to resort to drastic measures. “I’m going to up the prize money by fifty thousand dollars,” I said.

  Gabe tried to grab one of my slim, shapely ankles. His intention, I believe, was to pull me off the Harmons’ truck, and haul me indoors before my lips could get me into any more trouble. Fortunately, having played oodles of hopscotch as a girl, I was able to elude his grasp.

  “Are you sure, hon?” he whispered. “Where’s this money coming from?”

  “I’m sure,” I hollered. “Okay, folks, how about you all turn around, unload your trailers, and go back into the inn for a good night’s sleep?”

  This time, not a soul objected.

  8

  My sleep was punctuated by nightmares. In between dreams, I must have tossed and turned like a princess on a pea, because when I finally woke up, even though I was still under the covers, my head was at the foot of the bed. Thank heavens I am not claustrophobic.

  But what surprised me even more than my new location, was the fact that, sometime during the night, my dear husband had chosen to join me. This discovery made me almost as happy as the moment, under the chutzpah, when he pledged himself to me until death do us part. Or was that a chuppah? It certainly wasn’t a Chanukah; that I know is the Jewish festival that generally takes place in late December.

  At any rate, I should be ashamed to confess that discovering the Babester in my bed gave me an enormous amount of schadenfreude. Ida was going to be fit to be tied, and with any luck she would become tongue-tied as well. Of course this wasn’t a Christian attitude to take; it was actually rather sinful of me. But I fully intended to confess this sin as soon as I’d indulged in a few minutes of this guilty pleasure. Failure to enjoy life’s little blessings is also a sin, if you ask me.

  Nevertheless, as a good Mennonite, I do not believe in fancy forms of sexual foreplay, seeing as how they might lead to dancing. “Brace yourself, Magdalena” is good enough for me. Still, I thought Gabe deserved a reward for ditching his ma in favor of moi. Although it is no one’s business but my own, I will admit that during the height of my gratitude-inspired passion, I went so far as to engage in a wanton act so private I don’t even think it has a name. Alas, it was far less satisfying than I had imagined.

  For one thing, I didn’t remember the Babester as having one foot so much hairier than the other. The hirsute tootsie also smelled a great deal worse. In all frankness, kissing his right foot was not only bad enough to dampen my ardor, but I fleetingly considered becoming a nun. Yes, I realize that would require a change of religion, but in one fell swoop, I could lose the mother-in-law and pick up some new habits. But, like I said, it was only a fleeting thought.

  “Really, dear,” I said, my voice muffled by the covers, “a good depilatory and some foot powder could do wonders.”

  My beloved’s voice was equally as distorted. Funny, but he sounded almost like a woman.

  “I can’t believe you said that, Mags.”

  Uh-oh, now I’d hurt his feelings. Gabe, as befits an only son, is a world-class pouter. He once sulked for six days straight just because I washed a cashmere sweater of his. In my defense, it was in the laundry basket along with everything else, and everything I own is either cotton or that staple of sensible women everywhere: polyester blend.

  “Darling,” I purred soothingly, “I still love you, no matter how much your feet stink.”

  Gabe even laughed like a woman. “Who knew you had a sense of humor?”

  “I had it transplanted, dear. John Kerry had an extra one lying about, and generously decided to share. Of course, I had to agree to donate part of my brain to Bush when I die; they said anything was better than nothing.”

  The Babester found this enormously funny, and thrashed about like a trout on a stream bank. Ever the good sport, I decided to add to the jocularity by lightly pinching his hairiest toe. Boy, was I in for a surprise; my husband’s toes are capable of pinching back! And hard!

  Quite understandably, I screamed and threw back the covers. When I beheld who, and what, were sharing my bed, I screamed again. Then again, and even louder, just for good measure.

 
“Mags,” my sister said, as she tried unsuccessfully to put her hand over my mouth, “calm down. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “You’ve got that right. Because neither of us is budging from this one until I’ve given you a piece of my mind. And as for that mangy little mongrel of yours, you get that horrid little beastie out of my bed this instant!”

  In 1984, when Susannah was a teenager, she won first place in Hernia’s third annual Who Sighs The Loudest Contest. The sigh she emitted now put that one to shame.

  “All right, but you’ve got to stop calling my iddle-widdle Shnookums a mongrel. It hurts his teensy-weensy feelings. I’ve told you a million times that he’s a purebred Russian terrier.”

  “A Russian terrorist, maybe. Now get that rat out of my bed before I call an exterminator!”

  Even Susannah got nipped when she tried to evict the two-pound canine with the one-pound sphincter. But when the task was done she crawled back under the covers and laid her head on my shoulder. I can’t recall her doing that since she was three, and had just finished sobbing herself into a comatose state. That happened just after Granny Yoder told her that the Easter Bunny was a Catholic creation thought up by the pope as a plot to rot the teeth of Protestant children. Anyway, this sudden display of intimacy was a shock to my nervous system, and I almost went comatose as well.

  It was a struggle to string two words together. “What gives?”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t I allowed to snuggle with my own sis?”

  “Probably not in at least six states.”

  “That was actually funny, Mags. You know, marriage has really changed you. You even look different.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s hard to describe.”

  “Give it a shot, dear. If it’s complimentary, I have all the time in the world.”

  “Well, you kinda have this glow about you.”

  “That’s because I’m burning with rage. I know I’m not supposed to think like this—that it’s totally against everything I believe and hold dear—but if I ever get my hands on whoever did this to Doc, I’ll—uh—”

  “Rip his or her head off? Smash them with a crowbar? I hear you, sis. Doc Shafor is a dirty old man, but a sweet one. I’m mad too.”

  “Tell me, Susannah, how did the Amish—the ones whose children were gunned down in the schoolhouse—forgive so easily?”

  “Beats me. But then again, I couldn’t even handle being a Mennonite.”

  “Or a Presbyterian,” I said. Perhaps that was unfair of me. The day she came of age, and much against our parents’ wishes, Susannah ran off and married a nominal Presbyterian, one who didn’t even believe in predestination. Shortly after the wedding, she officially changed her church membership, an act which really broke our parents’ hearts, seeing as how our ancestors have been, at various times, either Mennonite or Amish since the 1500s. Less than three months later, she divorced Doug, and that was the end of any churchgoing for my baby sister. To call her a backslider would be unfair to millions of other nominal Christians, ones who feel guilty about their spiritual decline; Susannah didn’t just backslide, she dropped like a pallet of bricks from a ten-story building.

  “At least I’m not a hypocrite,” Susannah said.

  “Is that what you think I am? A hypocrite?”

  “If the shoe fits, Mags. Or should I say the sturdy black brogan?”

  “I was just being honest about my innermost feelings. I’d hardly call that hypocritical.”

  “Face it, sis, you and I aren’t like the rest of our family. Do you think we’re adopted?”

  “Me, maybe. But definitely not you. I’m eleven years older than you; I remember the day you were born.”

  “Were you there? In the room? Did you actually see me being born?”

  “Don’t be silly, Susannah. Mama didn’t even know she had a vagina until she was fifty-six and we made her go to the gynecologist. Before that it was just ‘down below.’ And since she never, ever, looked at herself, she certainly wouldn’t have allowed me to. No, I was told Papa found you under a cabbage in the vegetable patch out behind the barn.”

  “There! You see? We could both be adopted.”

  “A sobering thought, dear,” I said. “One that might lead to a multitude of possibilities, given that we already know that Papa sowed his seed in somebody else’s garden patch—if you get my drift.”

  “Mags, you are so old fashioned. Papa slept with Zelda Root’s mother, plain and simple. He was an adulterer. It’s perfectly all right to say it.”

  “And now I feel a migraine coming on. But I still want to know what you’re doing in my bed.”

  “I’ll tell you, but first you have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you won’t breathe a word of this to a soul.”

  “You know I can’t do that. And anyway, I should be offended; I practically raised you. If you can’t trust me, then you can’t trust anyone. I love you, Susannah, which means I would never betray you.”

  “But that’s exactly it,” my sister wailed. While I realize that wailing is not a common human vocalization, members of our family are peculiarly blessed in being able to do so well. And quite a blessing it is, don’t you think? When we’re caught in heavy traffic (admittedly quite rare in Hernia), we simply hang our heads out of our car windows and let her rip. Other cars pull over just as surely as if we were official emergency vehicles. And since half of the time we really are facing emergencies, I don’t feel too guilty about taking liberties with my voice.

  “I don’t understand,” I said calmly.

  “Who do I love more than anyone else in the world?”

  “Moi,” I said smugly.

  “Yeah, but besides you.”

  “Not the mantis!”

  “His name is Melvin. And I can’t believe he didn’t love me back.”

  I didn’t need a crystal ball to see where this conversation was headed. “Insect or man, he’s still a murderer. He killed my minister, for crying out loud. And if it wasn’t for my sturdy Christian underwear, he would have killed me too. Every day I thank God for Sears and JCPenney. If I’d been wearing something skimpy from Victoria’s Secret, I’d have been splattered at the base of Stucky Ridge.”

  “Oh, Mags, you’re always so dramatic. If you’re not even going to try to keep an open mind, then I’m not going to tell you.”

  “There’s more?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, but if my brain falls out on account of my mind being too open, it’s your fault.”

  “Mags, I’ve been having this dream. In it, Melvin contacts me and asks me to run away with him.”

  My teeth settled into familiar grooves as I bit my tongue. “What is your response, dear?”

  “I go with him, of course. Together we crisscross America dodging the long arm of the law, just like Bonnie and Clyde. We rob banks only when we have to eat. The rest of the time we rob fabric stores. But just so you know, we never actually shoot anybody.”

  Needless to say, I was fit to be tied—my tongue, however, was not. “Well, I don’t care who this Bonnie and Clydesdale are. What you’re saying is disgusting. If Mama and Papa could hear you, they’d die all over again. From shame this time.”

  “It’s only a dream, Magdalena. We aren’t responsible for our dreams.”

  “Maybe. But it’s become the subject of your daydreams too, hasn’t it?”

  “If I said yes, would you hate me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll always love you. But I’d be very, very disappointed.”

  Susannah’s response was to burrow back under the covers until not a hair on her endangered head was showing.

  9

  My guests pay dearly for their food, but they can’t ask for a better spread. Even though Freni was worried sick about Doc, she produced a meal fit for a queen: blueberry pancakes with freshly churned butter and real maple syrup; waffles; biscuits as light as clouds; warm, fragrant banana-nut bread; bacon, ham, sausage patties and sausage links;
fruit salad; flavored yogurts, as well as plain; oatmeal served with raisins and brown sugar; a wide variety of cold cereals; and, of course, eggs cooked to order. She also offered scrapple and headcheese, but there were no takers for those two delicacies. It has always puzzled me that some folks object to eating organ meats, but not to eating muscle tissue. They’re all parts of a dead animal, for crying out loud.

  At any rate, because the dear woman has a habit of talking to no one in particular, it took a while to register that Freni was addressing me, and not the bacon sizzling in her frying pan.

  “Why always a contest?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you not listen, Magdalena?”

  “I’m trying to listen, but that bacon is mighty loud.” It was only the smallest of white lies, and told only so as not to hurt her feelings.

  “The English,” she said, referring to anyone not Amish. “Why must everything be a contest? We have cows too, yah, but they are humble cows.”

  “Who produce humble pies.”

  “Ach, always so quick with the riddles.”

  “Is it my fault I’m so talented?”

  Freni shook her head. Given that she has virtually no neck, her entire body moved with the effort. Had it not been for her sturdy Christian underwear, it might have been unseemly.

  “Your mama was my best friend, Magdalena. I was there when you were born, yah? Otherwise I am not so sure you are hers.”

  “You were there?” This was news to me. I’d always heard it was Granny Yoder who helped bring me into the world, with the aid of canning tongs. It was either that, or the cabbage patch story.

  Freni turned the color of rhubarb sauce. “Okay, maybe I am not there exactly on time, but it was spring, and I am feeling the oats. To make short the story, I did not see you born.”

  “It was September, and you were already happily married to Mose. Your oats should have been well felt by then.”

  “So now the truth, yah?”

  “If you don’t spill it all now, I’m telling the English that your biscuits are store-bought.”