“But Harmon Dorfman walks around without a shirt.”
“So what? Have you forgotten that the uncles don’t wear pants?”
“And he claims to have cloned a cow.”
“His brother claims that, not him. Besides, Harry withdrew the claim this morning when the crowd booed his announcement.”
“Gabe let him announce it?”
“Yes, and forgive me, Magdalena, but it was mean of your husband to allow him to hang himself like that. Gabe is a doctor; he knew Harmon was faking it.”
“Faking or trying to pull the wool over our unsophisticated eyes? I think most folks would call that attempted thievery.”
Agnes extended her jaw in defiance, which set her chins to wobbling. When she gets into this frame of mind, there is no dissuading her.
“When are you leaving for North Dakota?”
“Oh, Magdalena, do you really mean it? Are you really going to support me in this?”
My sigh ruffled the surface of Slave Creek. “Yes, silly, but I’m not going to stop by to check on the uncles without you there. When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen one too many, if you ask me. I still can’t look at a turkey neck without blushing.”
She giggled. “I couldn’t ask for a better friend. And the answer is Thursday. By this time next week, I plan to be Mrs. Harmon Dorfman.”
I shuddered.
Freni must have heard the car pull up my gravel driveway, but she waited until Agnes was back on the road again before making her move. Then she burst through the back door and practically threw herself down the steps, flapping her stubby arms vigorously like a plump hen that can’t quite achieve liftoff.
“Ach, where have you been?”
“In the hospital. And how are you, dear?”
“Yah, I know about the hospital. But I called them, and they said that you checked out an hour ago. Where have you been since then?”
“Agnes plans to marry Harmon Dorfman.”
“Ach,” Freni squawked, and flapped her arms one last time. “That one is not right in the head.”
“Harmon or Agnes?”
Her eyes glinted behind the thick lenses, which meant she was trying hard not to smile. “Two pecans on the same branch, yah?”
“Yes, but at least Agnes is sincere. I’m afraid she’s going to be hurt.”
“She is a smart woman, Magdalena. Perhaps she can take care of herself. But your husband-well, what does he know of life outside his Big Banana?”
“Excuse me?”
“It means New York.” She wiped lard and flower from her glasses with a black sleeve. “How is it that I know this name, and you do not?”
A ray of light shone into my primordial brain. “Ah! You’re referring to the Big Apple!”
“They are both fruit, yah?”
Sometimes I can’t help myself. “A pea and a head of cabbage are both vegetables, both green, and both round, yet they’re hardly the same thing.”
When Freni loses an argument, she first wipes her hands carefully on her starched white apron. Then she heads to the large ceramic pot that is kept on a bench beside the stove, and withdraws from it a lump of rising dough. She proceeds to punch every last microscopic air pocket from the dough, before placing it in a new location so that it can rise again. The result is a never-ending supply of the best bread, buns, and cinnamon rolls this tongue has ever tasted. Please believe me, it is seldom my intention to goad my sweet, elderly cousin, but if we didn’t disagree from time to time, I would have to buy commercial bread. Then we’d both lose.
Today, however, Freni didn’t budge. “Maybe you need to sit now, yah?”
“What ever for? I’ve been lying in bed all day. It’s about time my feet got some blood.”
She sighed heavily, sending airborne those particles of flour that had not been captured by the grease. “Okay, but this is not such good news.”
“Freni, in the last six years, you have quit exactly one hundred and eighteen times. Given that you’ll be back here tomorrow morning, at the latest, quitting your job is hardly earth-shattering news.”
“Ach, this is no time for the lecture. Your Gabe is in trouble.”
“What?”
“He calls me this afternoon while I am making the shoofly pie. I am just pouring the liquid onto the crumbs, so I cannot stop, yah? So then he calls again in five minutes. Maybe less. He says that he tries to call you at the hospital, but can get no signal. He says to warn you that the contest is not going so well.”
“Don’t stop!”
“But that is where he stops.”
“Where is he now? Have you heard from him since then?”
Freni shrugged and shook her head at the same time, which, given her physiognomy, was an economy of motion. But not to worry; surely my Bubeleh was across the road being comforted by the stubby arms of you-know-who.
I dialed his number. His cell rang five times, and then switched me over to voice mail. If I had one of those dingleberry things, or whatever they are, I would have tried to send him a text message. But I didn’t. Instead, I did what every red-blooded, able-bodied, American woman would do: I prayed for wisdom. After sending up my smoke signal to the Almighty, I hiked up my skirts, retied my sensible black brogans, and ran the quarter of a mile to the farmhouse that my beloved still, if inexplicably, owns. Fit as I am-from repeatedly jumping to conclusions-I wasn’t the least bit winded upon my arrival.
Gabe’s car was in the long gravel driveway, parked next to the house, but that didn’t mean much. The one thing Hernia High School has a dearth of-besides students-is parking places. The Babester had already told me he planned to hitch a ride into town with one of the judges, so as to leave a space free for one of our many expected visitors. If pressed, however, my husband would undoubtedly admit that, as a New Yorker, he isn’t used to driving. I’ve seen him freeze up when he gets behind an Amish buggy, as if he doesn’t know whether to honk impatiently, or get out and snap pictures.
At any rate, I checked the barn first, where he has his writing studio, before making a beeline for the house. Of course, I didn’t knock or ring the bell. Why should I? Not only is my beloved mine, so is his property. The Babester and I commingled our belongings before commingling ourselves, on the grounds that anything less was a vote of no confidence. Anyway, neither my spouse nor his meddling ma were on the ground floor, so I sprinted up the stairs to the bedroom that my Sweet Cakes used to occupy before our blissful nuptials. I screeched to a stop just inside the door.
What I saw turned my stomach.
28
Ida Rosen, clad only in her flimsy Jewish underwear, is not a pretty sight. Perhaps no mother-in-law would be. Ida apparently felt the same way, because she shrieked and fell into an open suitcase on the floor.
Let those who think I am mean-spirited pay special attention to the following: I did not close the suitcase, shutting her inside, and ship her off to a made-up address in Outer Mongolia. Instead, I helped her out, averting my eyes the entire time, even when she said, “Oy, the second shtrap just broke. So now vhat am I going to do?”
“Please just get dressed,” I said. “Shtrap or no shtrap. I’ll wait outside until you’re done.”
I could have single-handedly dressed an octopus with rigor mortis in the time it took the tiny woman from Brooklyn to slip a muumuu over her head. Then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised by her lengthy delay. By the time she told me I could peek, the suitcase was no longer in sight.
“Where did it go?”
“Vhat?”
“The suitcase, of course.”
“Dere is no suitcase.”
“Ida, I haven’t got time for games, and neither do you. I’ve come to look for my husband.”
“My son?”
“Something is wrong. I can feel it. If you don’t tell me where he is this minute, I’m going to make every ancestor of mine for the past five hundred years spin in his or her grave, by doing something violent to your person. After that, I’ll have to
become a Southern Baptist, or maybe a Presbyterian-but trust me, it will be so worth it.”
I doubt if she understood my words, but something must have gotten through. “Nu? Are vee just going to stand here, or are vee going to look for my Gabeleh?”
“We’ll look. But if he isn’t here, and he isn’t at my-I mean, our-house, then where could he be?”
“Mit his girlfriend, perhaps?”
Just hearing the words was a stab to my heart. “What girlfriend?”
“How should I know? A son doesn’t tell his mother deese tings.”
“But are you saying that he has one?”
She clucked, sounding for all the world like my favorite hen, Pertelote. “Magdalena, look at you; you’re as tin as a slice of lox, yah? And your hair-oy.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Da braids and da bun, you look like a bubbee already.”
No doubt steam rose from my bun. It certainly spilled out of my nostrils. I pawed the floor with a size eleven, and waggled a finger at the woman who had become the bane of my existence.
“A bubbee, you say? I most certainly do not look like a grandmother. There are times when I may look like a mare that’s been ridden hard and put away wet, and I know for a fact that there are grandmothers younger than I am, but I do not look like a stereotypical grandmother: I don’t have many wrinkles, my hair is still its natural shade of mousy brown, and only a few of them are to be found on my chin. And as for having a figure like a slice of smoked salmon, I’ll have you know that your son refers to my bosoms as bodacious, and claims to be quite happy with the junk in my trunk-to borrow a term from the vernacular.”
“And crazy too.”
“Your son,” I cried. “Shouldn’t we be concentrating on him? For all we know he could be lying in a ditch somewhere.”
“Yah?”
“Double yah. Vultures could be circling overhead. The Grim Reaper could be sharpening his scythe. And meanwhile, your only son, the fruit of your Looney Tunes, is murmuring, ‘Ma? Where are you, Ma? ’ “
Ida galvanized before my eyes. The transformation was amazing. One minute she was a meddling mother-in-law in a muumuu, the next she became the quintessential Warrior Mother, a lioness who would fight to the death for her cub.
“Nu? Vhy are vee standing here? Let’s get a move on, already.”
I was in need of some real moral support, so I called my normally levelheaded friend Agnes and asked her to come along. Pal that she was, I didn’t need to twist her arm more than once.
And so we did.
We began by phoning all the judges, organizers, and sponsors of what was supposed to have been the shining star in Hernia’s crown. Not only had my husband not hitched a ride with any of them, but no one had seen him since the closing ceremony. However, plenty of people-okay, virtually everyone-were as mad as hornets. You’d have thought I’d knocked down their nests and stomped on them, perhaps even spraying them first with DDT.
Lyudmila Prendergast, who’d donated twelve dollars towards our expenses, was particularly livid, and insisted that I come to her house and meet with her face-to-face. Only then, she said, would she reveal an “interesting tidbit” that might explain Gabe’s disappearance.
Normally, I would not agree to meet Lyudmila anywhere, except for a well-lit church that was packed to the gills with my friends and family. Lyudmila would be in the choir loft, and I would be positioned by the front door, with my brogans securely tied, just in case I needed to make a run for it.
To make a long story short, Lyudmila hates my guts. She’s hated my poor innards since the tenth grade when I wouldn’t let her copy my answers to an American history exam. After school that day, she called me “Goody Two-Brogans,” and started spreading the rumor that I had a crush on Danny Culp. That wouldn’t have been so bad had it not been the truth. The next day, to get back at her, I did what every Hernia High kid did as the ultimate act of humiliation: I sat on Lyudmila’s lunch sack.
I had no way of knowing that Lyudmila packed her own lunch, giving herself only Hostess Twinkies injected with booze. Needless to say, I thoroughly mashed the little crème-filled cakes, but in the process inadvertently invented a dessert the British refer to as trifle. Sadly, to date, I have not been accorded the recognition I deserve from our good friends across the pond. Inventing such a venerable institution is no trifling matter, and, at the very least, I think a title would be in order. Her Ladyship, Magdalena Yoder-Rosen, Countess of Hernia, practically rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?
At any rate, I was feeling only mild trepidation as I rang Lyudmila’s doorbell. Agnes and Ida were still in the car, happily trading insults. If I called for their help, they most likely wouldn’t hear me. On the other hand, if I plumb disappeared, they’d eventually get around to investigating. After all, I had the car keys.
Lyudmila snorted a greeting as she opened the storm door. It sounded to me like, “Hello, Goody Two-Brogans,” but, then again, I might have been listening for it. Be assured, I said something quite pleasant in return. I had no choice if I wanted to locate the Babester as soon as possible.
“Well, do you like it?” she demanded, before another second had passed.
“Like what?”
“This!” She gestured rapidly around the room, like a museum docent who’d worked a double shift, and was facing her final visitors of the day-ones that had shown up just before closing time.
I couldn’t help but gape as my mind was hurled back into the 1970s. The Prendergast home was a shrine to the days of bell bottoms and a bloated Elvis. Velvet paintings of the King of Rock, toward the end of his reign, adorned those walls not dedicated to velvet portraits of the King of Kings. Pots of half-dead pathos, cradled in macramé slings, hung from the ceiling at meaningless intervals. Although the coffee table was merely a laminated slice of redwood held above the shag carpet by cypress knees, it made quite a statement.
“Well?” she demanded again. “Do you like it?”
I flashed her a practiced smile. “It’s definitely something.”
“I did it all myself, you know; I don’t believe in decorators.”
“I hear you, sister. Decorators, shmecorators, I always say. They’d just tell you that you were caught in a time warp. Imagine anyone not liking velvet art? They’re just the kind of people who wouldn’t appreciate Captain and Tennille either.”
“ ‘Muskrat Love’ is my favorite song! Would you like to hear it?”
“I’d sooner hang from one of your macramé pot holders,” I mumbled.
“What did you say?”
As you can see, I was forced to lie. I said, “Tell me that interesting tidbit about my husband that you promised.”
She pointed to a crushed velvet sofa, the color of overripe concord grapes. “Sit.”
I did as bidden.
“First,” she hissed, “I want an apology.”
“Okay, I confess. I lied. But muskrats are nothing more than destructive rodents that ruin the banks of ponds and streams, and besides, they stink-that’s why they call them muskrats. The rat part isn’t very romantic either. Muskrat love, indeed.”
She looked stunned. “Huh?”
“Call the county agricultural agent if you don’t believe me.”
“Magdalena, are you daft? Are your braids pulled too tight? None of what you just said has anything to do with the apology that I want.”
“Oh, that! Yes, it really was me who told our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Wilson, that your lunch sack smelled remarkably like her husband’s breath, but at the time I didn’t know anything about alcohol, so you see, I didn’t try to get you in trouble on purpose.”
“Not that either, you idiot-although, I did become rather popular for a while. Even Brian Melke asked me out. But the apology I want is for the twelve bucks I donated to your stupid Holstein competition. You said it would put Hernia on the map. Did you know that a reporter from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette was there?”
“He made it
after all? Terrific.”
“Ha. You won’t say that tomorrow when you read his article. Thanks to you, he thinks we’re a bunch of losers. He said at first that he thought your husband’s performance was a joke. Then, when he realized it was for real, it really ticked him off, having come all this way just to waste his time. Let alone gas. Do you know what he said he was going to title his article?”
“Nope.”
“ ‘Hernia: Even Surgery Couldn’t Save This Dump.’ He said it was going to go out on AP wires everywhere.”
Tamar Myers Page 16