Tamar Myers

by As the World Churns (lit)

  She grinned happily. “Just the way you like it. Now these people-the Pearlmutters-how many children do they have?”

  “None, as far as I know.”

  “Humph. Well, when they came in the first time, they ordered regular meals: eggs, bacon, toast, juice, coffee. But the second time around, when they did the takeout order, they asked for three orders of pancakes-one buttermilk regular, one buttermilk silver dollar style, the third one buckwheat-regular toast, cinnamon toast, French toast-both plain and stuffed, like them fancy places like IHOP make-scrambled eggs, and four orders of sausage links. Oh, and two large milks. Two juices as well. I just assumed they had kids with them this time, and they were waiting in the car.”

  “Buckwheat?” Agnes asked. “I didn’t realize you still offered those. I haven’t had a buckwheat pancake in ages.”

  “They’re by request only.” Wanda tipped her beehive hairdo at some invisible spies and lowered her voice. “They’re from a mix. I keep some on hand because every now and then some relic from the past shows up and asks for them. ‘We Aim to Pleez.’ That’s our motto. Says so right on the menus.”

  In the interest of saving both time and energy, I bit my tongue so hard that I felt it all the way to my toes. How will kids these days learn to spell if their computers automatically correct them, and if they are constantly subjected to what I call bizspell? The clever names that companies think up for themselves are, in fact, signposts on the road to literary perdition. And to what end? Puns? I eschew puns, viewing them as nothing more than intellectual laziness!

  But I digress. Something Wanda had said was percolating through my brain. Buckwheat pancakes-particularly the ones the Sausage Barn served-were Gabe’s favorite. As for Alison, she could never make up her mind, so I always ordered both kinds of French toast for her, knowing that the Babester would happily polish off what she couldn’t finish. After all, my sweet pseudo-stepdaughter was in the middle of a growth spurt, and invariably started her breakfasts at the Sausage Barn with sil-ver-dollar pancakes, followed by a small stack of buttermilk flapjacks.

  Both of them loved Wanda’s link sausage, and commonly ordered double helpings. Milk and juice were also staples of a visit to the Hemphopple Temple of Icky Stickiness (as Alison calls it, in reference to all the maple syrup she spills, which never gets cleaned up). That left just the scrambled eggs and plain toast unaccounted for, but on the days when Gabe is particularly stressed, or decides to work out, his appetite soars.

  The thought that was beginning to make my blood run cold was simply this: what were the odds that the Pearlmutters would eat breakfast at the Barn, and return twenty minutes later and order the same meal my sweet patooties habitually consumed?

  It just didn’t seem like a coincidence. And if it wasn’t a coincidence, then the Pearlmutters had to know the whereabouts of my darlings. But beyond that, it could also be that the half-dashing duo from the Garden State were holding Gabe and Alison against their will. But why?

  A poke in the arm from Agnes brought me back to my surroundings. “You in there somewhere, Magdalena? If I wasn’t a practicing Methodist, especially one of Mennonite extraction, I’d say you’ve been abducted by aliens, and this is only a shell I’m looking at.”

  “Humph,” Wanda said, just to spite me, and then turned her venom on Agnes. “I thought you Methodists believed in the possibility of extratesticles-or whatever they’re called.”

  “I don’t think we have an official position. Personally, I find it hard to reconcile the gift of salvation through Jesus with alien life forms. It doesn’t say anywhere in the Bible that Christ died for them as well.”

  “That’s because they don’t exist. Frankly, Agnes, you wouldn’t have this crisis of faith if you’d remained a good Mennonite.”

  “I’m not having a crisis of faith! And as long as we’re being frank, Wanda-”

  My shell sprang into action. “Ladies! I have reason to believe that there’s been a real abduction. Those people, the Pearlmutters, for whatever reason, have taken Alison and Gabe hostage.”

  “Hostage? My Gabeleh? My only son?” It was as if Ida, who had been behaving herself up until then, had stuck her finger into a light socket.

  “Ida dear, that’s not for sure. I’m just jumping to conclusions like I usually do. Who knows, maybe they’re off playing peewee golf somewhere.”

  “Oy veys meer,” Ida said. She looked ready to faint.

  There was no reason to tell the Babester’s mother the rest of my theory. Her eagle-eyed son, the famous heart surgeon, had detected something unkosher-if I may be pardoned the incorrect usage of this term-about the Pearlmutters’ entry. As Jane was a plastic surgeon, and udder enhancement was the most common way to cheat in dairy cow competitions, it followed that my husband had spotted a suture line in the bovine’s feminine expres-sion-so to speak.

  It had also occurred to me that Alison was the first to be abducted, and that they’d used her as a pawn to get Gabe to move the competition along at lightning speed, just as fast as a dog wants out of a roomful of mother cats. It was possible that Gabe might have been able to save his own handsome neck at any point along the way by calling the police, but as long as the welfare of his pseudo-stepdaughter was at stake, he would have cooperated with Satan himself. My heart glowed with love.

  “Magdalena,” Agnes said, “are you in there someplace?”

  “What? Of course I’m in here! I don’t believe in astral projection; I barely know the word.”

  “Well, you said they could be playing peewee golf, right? But what if they’re really tied up in an abandoned lumberyard somewhere. A giant table saw with two-inch teeth is spinning just in front of them. Suddenly, two hooded men in black grab Gabriel and push him in the direction of the blade-”

  “Agnes!” I barked. “This is not your creative writing class. What you just said could be really happening.”

  “Sorry, Magdalena. I guess I got carried away. What would you like me to do?”

  “Call Sheriff Dewlapp, and tell him that I have a hunch that the Pearlmutters have my missing husband and foster daughter. If he refuses to take it seriously, tell him I said that a hunch from a woman is as good as two facts from a man, and remind him of all the times I’ve been right.” I turned to Wanda. “In the meantime, I’m going to stock up on provisions, because I feel a trip to Maryland coming on. Wanda, dear, lead the way to your pantry.”

  Wanda’s ominous do teetered and tottered as she shook her head. “I don’t even think so. This is isn’t a grocery store, you know.”

  I patted my pocketbook. “Have you forgotten that I am a very wealthy woman?”

  “Okay, but I’m going to Maryland with you.”

  33

  “Who is this Mary Lynn?” Ida demanded. “Eez she my Gabeleh’s girlfriend?”

  “No, Ida,” Agnes said. “Maryland is the state directly to the south of us. For some reason that only she can fathom, Magdalena thinks it’s akin to the wild and wooly west.”

  “Mit Indians and vagon trains, yah?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Den how is it?”

  “It’s very much like here, except that it’s thirty miles south.”

  “It’s across a border,” I hissed. “Do we need passports?” Wanda asked. Believe me, I was so tempted to lie that I would have given one of my silver-filled molars for the opportunity to do so, and without guilt. Alas, those opportunities seldom come my way. Besides, my cell phone was ringing and the caller was Chris Ackerman.

  “Wanda, may I take this in your office?”

  “No. Take it outside.” I put young Chris on hold. “If you expect posse privileges, Wanda, you’d better pony up.” Ida looked crestfallen. “But I dunt ride horses.”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you, dear,” I said kindly. “Never mind that a nag on a nag would be quite redundant.” I smiled pleasantly. “So, how about it, Wanda?”

  “You won’t like my office; it’s just a hole in the wall.”

&n
bsp; “I’ve survived many a hole.”

  “Not like this one.”

  As it was not an altogether unpleasant day, I was prepared to capitulate and take the call outside. However, today, more than on any prior occasion, I sensed that Wanda was hiding something in her hole, and I aimed to see it. I realize now that it was utterly selfish of me to concern myself with something so petty when two of my most cherished family members were missing and quite possibly in peril, but I couldn’t help myself.

  You see, for years everyone in Hernia has observed Wanda slip in and out of a small white door directly behind the checkout counter of her restaurant. She is not a large woman by any means, but the door perpetually scrapes against her bosom as her buttocks are pushed flat against the doorjamb.

  Everyone has their own theory. Colleen Fitzgerald believes that Wanda keeps a pot of gold back there, one she stole from a leprechaun. Jimmy Hildebrand swears he heard an infant’s cry once when the door was cracked. By the way, Jimmy and his wife, Gloria, lost a three-week-old daughter on the New York subway-literally lost her. Although the child was soon found unharmed, ever since then, Jimmy has never been quite right in the head.

  My personal theory is that Wanda has secretly converted to Melvinism. This is an abhorrent and patently pagan religion, seeing as how it is based on a revelation not in the Bible, a book which every thinking person knows is true, if only because it says so right in it. Melvinism, on the other hand, was invented by Zelda Root, who just happens to be my half sister and a former policewoman.

  Zelda was in love with her boss, the infamous Melvin Stoltzfus, and, although lacking any proof, came to the conclusion that the mantis is divine. One might suppose that such lunacy would be unique, but the cult of Melvin has inexplicably spread, and now there are hundreds of lost souls who claim to believe this word-of-mouth faith and its preposterous tenets.

  “I know what you’re hiding,” I said, “and disgusted as I might be, I’m not shocked. You’re a Melvinite, aren’t you? You have an altar in there dedicated to Melvin-possibly even with a goat’s head on it.”

  “That’s disgusting. But, since you’re such a smarty-pants, be my guest.”

  Wanda may be small, but she’s also very quick. Before I could think through her change of heart, she’d opened the mysterious white door and pushed me through. The space was indeed not much more than a hole, but it was well lit. Still, it took me several seconds to comprehend what I was seeing.

  “Ack! Get me out of here.”

  “Seen enough?”

  “Almost. Give me another minute, so that I can commit it all to memory. I’ll need details for my lawsuit.”

  Wanda grabbed the collar of my dress, and yanked me out so fast that I left my dandruff behind. In one fluid motion, she kicked the door shut behind me, and secured it with a padlock.

  “You sue me,” she hissed, “and I’ll sue you.”

  Agnes draped a large, heavy arm across my bony shoulders. “Magdalena, what is it? What did you see?”

  “Yah, vhat?” Ida tugged at my sleeve, like a street urchin begging for alms. “Vhat? Vhat?”

  I could feel Wanda’s beady black eyes boring through my back. Slap a three-inch scar across her left cheek, and she’d be an archetype-just not the type to mess with. Not now, at least.

  “She has male pinups on the walls,” I lisped, as I lied through my teeth.

  “Vhat?”

  “Pictures of half-naked men.”

  “Yah? Vich half?”

  “Diagonally, from top right to bottom left.”

  “Magdalena,” Agnes whispered, “you’re dissembling, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged free. “Wanda, dear, I’m not so sure you should come along.”

  “Because of what you saw in there? That’s no fair! You practically forced me to show you.”

  “It’s not that. You see, I read somewhere that it can be confusing to have multiple characters take part in the same conversation.”

  “Not if there are ample tags,” Agnes said. “Maybe you have a point,” I said. “It’s a very good point,” Wanda said. “Vhat are you talking about?” Ida said. “Never mind,” I said gently. “Any other questions, ladies?”

  “Duh,” Wanda said. “Why are we taking Route 96 down into Maryland, instead of the turnpike in either direction, or any of the other million roads that lead out of the commonwealth?”

  If patience is a virtue, then I am most definitely a woman without merit. I sighed, I tapped my toes, I even rolled my eyes a wee bit.

  “Because, dear, if you really must know-”

  “Which I must. I am, after all, supplying the food.”

  “And I’m driving,” said my best friend, Agnes Judas Mishler. “Und I am geefing da moral supports.”

  “That’s not necessary, dear; you already gave at the office.”

  “I did?”

  “Oodles of it. Just remember come March that it’s tax deductible.”

  “Tanks.”

  “Mags, you’re awful,” Agnes said. “Tanks,” I said. “Look, gals, it’s like this: unlike some of the other contestants-and I hereby exercise a great deal of Christian charity-the Pearlmutters are both bright people. She’s a surgeon, and he’s a stockbroker. They’re going to stay clear of any major roads. At the same time, they’re going to be checking a map, looking for the quickest way across the state line. And guess what?”

  “Vhat?” Ida said.

  “That was a rhetorical question, dear.”

  “That means it wasn’t meant to be answered,” Wanda said.

  “Like most of Magdalena’s qvestions, yah?”

  Give credit where credit is due, I always say, so I gave Ida an air point. After all, the woman is merely annoying, not dense. Who knows, if we both weren’t in love with the same man, in another time, in another place, she might even grow to like me.

  “Anyway,” I said, “Route 96 is torture if you’re pulling a trailer, which is exactly why Gabe and Alison, if given the chance, would urge the Pearlmutters not to take it.”

  “Because den dey vould for sure take it, yah?”

  “You bet your bippy. And once you start down that road with a trailer, there’s no turning around.”

  “Oy, but it’s getting dark outside!”

  “Exactly! You see, there is a little pullover-where there used to be a kind of primitive rest area-and the odds are that, if they have indeed taken this route, they will avail themselves of this place until morning.”

  “Hmm,” Wanda said, pretending to write on a pad, “now let me see, we have an order of kidnappers, and an order of rest area, and if we add an order of deputies-I’m sorry, to say, Magdalena, but they don’t add up. If this couple is as bright as you say they are, they’re not going to park a cow carrier alongside a highway.”

  “O ye of little faith,” I said, quoting the latter part of Matthew 6:30. “I said there used to be a rest area. Now it’s just a dent in the trees where folks in the know park to get to know each other in the Biblical sense. Not that I know whereof I speak, of course, at least not from personal experience-okay, so maybe once, or twice, six at the most, but we were already married, and how else were we going to get away from the prying eyes of you-know-who, and anyway, whether or not I did the backseat bossa nova is nobody’s business but mine, and-”

  “Such a slut, I tell you.”

  I prayed for patience, and for once it was granted. “Since it was with your son, I will choose to take that as a compliment, dear. But listen up everyone, there is one other very important reason I think that the Pearlmutters are on Route 96 headed for the Maryland state line, and that is because once they reach it, there is another state line just five miles farther south.”

  “West Virginia,” Wanda said knowingly. “Their motto is ‘the Mountain State.’ It’s supposed to be even wilder and woollier than Maryland. If you don’t get captured by a mountain man and taken back to his cabin to be his sex slave, you could hide for the rest of your life in
those hills, and even the feds couldn’t find you. I get this from my customers, by the way.”

  “Do you think any of those mountain men like their sex slaves on the plump side?”

  “Agnes!” I cried. I was shocked from the top of my cap-cov-ered bun to the tips of stocking-clad toes. I was also somewhat pleased by her gumption, misplaced as it was.

  “Actually, they don’t,” Wanda said. “They prefer gaunt women. But don’t worry; I get plenty of unmarried male customers who much prefer the curvier sort. Would you like me to fix you up?”

  “Yes,” she said shyly.