Just Plain Pickled to Death

by Tamar Myers

  “Yup. Susannah claims that Hernia is the buckle on the Bible belt. Our cousin Sam, who owns the only food market, was picketed when he added wine vinegar to his stock.”

  She laughed till she shook. “Oh, shit,” she said. “See what you made me do?”

  Hopefully I hadn’t caused her to swear. Nails, I supposed, could be fixed, but Mama spinning in her coffin was a grave matter.

  “Auntie Lizzie, could I ask you some personal questions?”

  “Lizzie, please. And there’s no need to ask. That isn’t Manny’s real hair color. Or the color of his mustache either. When I started coloring my hair—I do, you know—Manny had to follow suit. He thought if I was going to look young, then he had to as well. Like I would step out on him!”

  That wasn’t what I was going to ask, but I decided to run with it. “Forgive me if this is a painful subject, but did your sister Rebecca really run off to the Poconos with an accordion-playing preacher?”

  She knocked the polish bottle over, but an oversized hand righted it again before any damage was done.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Heard it around,” I said. As much as Freni irritates me, I would rather put bamboo slivers under my fingernails than betray her. I’d even rather eat fried liver and mashed turnips, which says a lot.

  “Well, there was an accordion player, but she sure as hell didn’t run off with him.”

  “Again, I don’t mean to be rude, but how can you be so sure?”

  She took her time before answering, blowing on each magnificent finger like it was a candle with a stubborn wick.

  “Because, dear, it was Vonnie who had the affair with Benjamin, not Becca.”

  I gulped. “Auntie Veronica?”

  “Well, I can’t actually prove that they had an affair affair, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded, although it was machts-nichts to me. What did I know about the various levels of an affair? It didn’t matter, though, because Lizzie loved to talk.

  “It was a terrible idea in the first place, that twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party. Aaron Senior and Catherine were never happily married. So why celebrate twenty-five years of bickering?”

  “Why, indeed?”

  “Because that’s what our family does. So we all dropped everything and made happy for a week. Fortunately none of us lived out of state, so it wasn’t a big financial hardship, except maybe for Vonnie and Rudy. You’d think Verona was on the moon, the way she complained.”

  “I thought they lived in Fox Chapel.”

  She had a cultivated chuckle. “They do now, of course, but back then they didn’t have enough change to play tiddledywinks.”

  “I’ve been to Verona,” I felt compelled to say. “It’s right next to Oakmont, where Mystery Lovers Bookshop is located. Fox Chapel is on the other side of the Allegheny River.”

  “Exactly. Well, Vonnie bitched for about a day or two, and then she saw this sign for a revival, and the next thing we knew, she had fallen head over heels in love with the accordion player.”

  “Was he cute?”

  Platinum blondes don’t always emit cultivated laughs. “He was as ugly as a mangy hound dog dead two days.”

  “That bad?”

  “Honey, none of us could see what she saw in him. Of course, Rudy may not be so much to look at now, but in those days he was a hell of a lot cuter than that accordion player.”

  “Maybe she was having trouble with her marriage,” I said meekly. The meekness part was important. Most married folks bristle when a spinster offers an opinion on the subject.

  “Yeah, well, that’s a whole book in itself.”

  “Do tell. The high points, I mean.”

  “You sure this won’t offend your sensibilities?”

  “Positive.” At least not any more than the question itself had.

  “Rudy Gerber considers himself God’s gift to women.”

  “I noticed.”

  “He put the squeeze on you?”

  “I felt like I was an orange.”

  “Welcome to the club. Unfortunately that’s not as bad as it gets.”

  “So he had affair affairs?”

  She looked me over casually, like I was a horse she was about to bid on. “Of course I can’t prove that he did, but everyone knows he did. Especially after they moved to Verona. From what I hear, that place is a real fleshpot.”

  I felt cheated for having noticed nothing more than a quaint riverside town whose main street was lined with antique shops.

  “And Rudy is a Mennonite?”

  “Born and bred.” The cultivated laugh returned. “Honey, Mennonites are just like everyone else.”

  Not the ones I knew. Not in Hernia. I grew up thinking we had it all over the Catholic church. They had just one Virgin Mary with a son; we had hundreds.

  “So you think Veronica ran around with the accordion player to get back at Rudy?”

  “Two and two makes four, doesn’t it?”

  I sat quietly for a few minutes watching her paint the enormous nails on her gargantuan hands. If I had nails that big, and the courage to paint them, I would feel compelled to paint scenes from the Gospels. One of her thumbnails alone could hold the Feeding of the Five Thousand—if done with a very small brush, of course.

  “About Rebecca,” I said at last, “a little bird told me that Rudy was pestering her that summer. You know what I mean. And that it made Jonas, Rebecca’s husband, jealous. Is that true?”

  “Does this little bird put mint jelly on tongue sandwiches?”

  “Let’s say it’s possible.”

  “Ah, Freni, of course. I know she’s your auntie, but—”

  “My mother’s cousin, actually.”

  “She doesn’t always get things right.”

  I nodded to encourage her, but I felt terribly guilty. One woman I liked but hardly knew. The other I loved (you try liking Freni!).

  “Rudy may have been pursuing Becca, but Jonas was not the least bit bothered by it. He trusted Becca completely. No, I’d say he was more flattered by Rudy’s attention than bothered.”

  “I’ll set her straight.” And I would. Mustard versus mint jelly on tongue was a no-brainer, as Susannah was fond of saying.

  I spent far too much time watching Lizzie paint her nails, and when I was absolutely sure that none of them were going to sport biblical scenes, I decided to sneak back to my room—past the log-sawing uncles—and take a brief nap of my own. Stress, I have discovered, can manifest itself two ways. Either it makes you feel like swinging from the barn rafters, screeching at the top of your lungs, or it knocks you into a near coma. At that moment I could hardly keep my eyes open.

  I screamed.

  “Damn it!” the body said and sat up.

  “Susannah!” I lunged at the light.

  Sure enough, there was my baby sister, swaddled in her silken swirls, but something was clearly amiss. It took me several seconds to realize that she was crying. Tears are not something I am used to seeing on Susannah’s cheeks.

  “Susannah, whatever is the matter?”

  I patted her arm out of the deepest concern. I suppose you will take me to task for not hugging her, but I am genetically incapable of such behavior unless the recipient is less than two feet tall.

  “It’s you,” she said accusingly and flopped back down.

  “What?”

  “You’re the trouble.”

  “Susannah, I had no idea when I accepted the kraut—”

  “I’m not talking about the damn kraut, Mags. I’m talking about your wedding.”

  “Susannah, I’ve made you my bridesmaid. What else do you want?”

  I already knew the answer to that. She had made it painfully clear. My sister wanted her dress to be hot pink and cut well above the knee. The only reason she wasn’t pushing for a low-cut model was that she had plans to carry Shnookums in her bra up the aisle!

  “Oh, Mags, it’s so unfair.”

  I took a deep breath and counted to
ten—by fives. “I will not have a dog at my wedding, dear. You can cry until your eyes fall out, but I’m not changing my mind. Do you think there was a canine at the wedding in Cana?”

  “You are so dense sometimes,” she wailed and rolled over on the bed. There was a stifled yelp and she hastily sat up.

  “Then illuminate me, dear.”

  “I’m not talking about Shnookums. I’m talking about you—and marriage.”

  “What?”

  “I never thought I would see you get married, Mags.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, I mean I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

  “Go on.”

  “This is hard, Mags.”

  “Go on anyway.” To make it as easy as I could, I turned slightly away. I, for one, have always found talking to a face intimidating.

  “Well—remember how it was when Mama and Papa died? I don’t mean that day, exactly, but afterward.”

  These were rhetorical questions, and I understood them fully. From the moment I saw the state trooper’s car in the drive, I felt like I was sleepwalking. That feeling persisted for days. And then when the numbness wore off, I felt panic. Grief didn’t catch up until much later.

  I nodded.

  “Well, that’s how I feel now.”

  “Numb, or panicky?”

  “Panicky. I’m scared to death, Mags.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what will happen to me.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Will you make me leave, Mags?”

  “Leave? The PennDutch?”

  “Ever since that day, Mags, it’s been us sisters alone against the world. Just us and Shnookums. The Three Musketeers.”

  “Your rat would be a mouseketeer,” I said, not unkindly.

  “You get my point, Mags. We’ve always had each other.”

  Except for your ill-fated marriage, when you just ran off and left me, I felt like saying, but I didn’t.

  “Of course I don’t expect you to leave,” I said, after a brief and perhaps evil pause.

  “You don’t?”

  “Not on your life! I’m going to need you even more when I’m married.”

  “You will?”

  “You bet your sweet bippy. When I’m a married woman, I’m going to want some time off—if you know what I mean—and I expect you to take up the slack.”

  “What kind of slack?”

  “Well, for starters, there are those folks who are too cheap for ALPO. You’ll—”

  “You want me to do laundry and clean rooms?”

  “Bingo! And Freni could use a hand in the kitchen from time to time. She’s no spring chicken, you know.”

  “Enough! I feel needed,” Susannah wailed. It was a happy wail, though, and Shnookums felt free to join in. Over the years they have learned to harmonize.

  “But the pooch stays home from church,” I said sternly. “I’m nervous enough without having to worry about doggy-doo when I’m saying my I do’s.”

  “Speaking of nervous—are you, Mags?”

  “I just said I was, dear.”

  “I mean, about sex.”

  “What?”

  “It will be your first time, won’t it?”

  I stared at my sister. I couldn’t believe that even she would ask me such a thing. In my book, it was unnecessary. The asking, not the sex—although I wasn’t convinced about that either. I was most definitely still a virgin. And of course I wasn’t nervous— I was petrified!

  Mama (and in his own clumsy way, Papa) raised me to believe that sex before marriage was wrong. I’m not saying that I had a lot of opportunity to disappoint them, but as long as one heterosexual male roams the earth, there isn’t a woman alive that needs to die a virgin. But I had been a good girl and saved myself for marriage. I only hoped I hadn’t waited too long.

  Dr. Carr (a woman) in Bedford had informed me that everything was in working order. Not necessarily prime, mind you, but working. She had assured me that Aaron, if he was half the man I claimed he was, would take things slowly until the machinery was raring to go. She even had some exercises I might do, to “facilitate the transition.” But as kind and helpful as Dr. Carr was, she hadn’t managed to vanquish all my fears.

  “I’m terrified,” I wailed.

  “There, there,” Susannah said, and against all genetic opposition, she hugged me close.

  We had never felt more like sisters.

  Chapter Nine

  The Beeftrust and their respective consorts filled an entire pew the next morning at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. Aaron, his dad, and I sat behind them. Freni and her husband, Mose, went to their Amish services, and Susannah just stayed home. I don’t think even the Presbyterians have seen her in a month of Sundays.

  Rev. Michael Schrock is a very young man—just two years out of seminary—and Hernia is his first pastorate. His wife, Lodema, is our new organist. They have no children. It is my impression that everyone is fond of the couple, but if truth be told, most of us wish that Rev. Schrock would preach shorter sermons and that Lodema would play the hymns as they appear in the book. Her embellishments, while quite creative, do not enhance the service. There, I said it—and said it like a good Christian, I might add.

  The Beeftrust, however, enjoyed themselves thoroughly. They sang loudly—and off-key—trailing along behind Lodema’s strange departures, oblivious to pace or place. During the sermon three of them pulled yarn out of their purses and began knitting away, as busy as bees constructing a hive. Because of their size, no one saw them—except the choir and of course the Schrocks. Frankly, I wouldn’t have known what they were up to but for the faint click of needles and the skein of lavender yarn that somehow escaped and came to a stop at my feet.

  The uncles took advantage of the forty-five-minute dissertation on the joys of tithing to supplement their nap time. Being good Mennonite uncles, they knew, to a man, how to church-sleep. I had always believed this to be an inherited ability, so I was pleased to see that Uncle Elias was just as adept at it as the others. Their heads bobbed only occasionally, never inclining to more than a sixty-degree angle. Their snores were as soft as a kitten’s.

  After church we dillydallied in the parking lot while my soon-to-be-in-laws gave thumbnail autobiographies of themselves to old friends and received tome-length accounts of their friends’ lives in return. “Fine,” “great,” and “never been better” were the lies most often voiced by visitors and regulars alike.

  For some reason I got chosen as Lodema’s sounding board that morning. Apparently the choir was suffering from spring fever, the organ needed major repairs, and the prices at Sam Yoder’s Comer Market were far too high. Then she got around to her real agenda. Did I realize her husband was under a lot of strain, she wondered? I did not. Was I aware that the following weekend was the Annual Trout Fishing Championship in Scaleybark, West Virginia? I was not. Under the circumstances, would I consider postponing my wedding so Michael could unwind over his favorite flies? I most certainly would not! I said it as politely as I could, but Lodema still ended up in tears.

  By the time I was ready to leave, everyone but Aaron and his dad—and of course the Schrocks— had long since departed. Even the Beeftrust had taken hoof, although surely they knew that Sunday dinner would not be served until I got there.

  I would like to state here that if Aaron hadn’t been so impatient to get home he might have noticed in time that the left rear tire on the car—my car—was a little low. But he didn’t notice until the loud frump, frump, frump of a total flat punctured the relative silence of the peaceful countryside. By then we were halfway home.

  “Damn!” Aaron said and got out to extract the spare.

  Worse words, army words, surfaced when he discovered I was packing no spare.

  “It’s Susannah’s fault,” I wailed. “She borrowed it last week to go into Bedford. She must have had a flat then and not told me. How was I to know she didn’t replace the spare?”

/>   Aaron said a few choice phrases that made me think, albeit temporarily, that it might well be in our best interests to postpone the wedding. Maybe a weekend of fly-fishing in West Virginia would straighten out some of the kinks that were rapidly showing up in his armor.

  In the end my Pooky Bear left me to keep his dad company while he strode the five or so miles home to get his car. Although there were several farms along the way, they were owned by Amish families, who possessed neither spare tires nor telephones. It was also unlikely that he would get a lift. At that hour everyone else was long home from church and if not deeply immersed in their Sunday dinners, already beginning to sleep them off.

  “Mr. Miller—”

  “Pops, please,” said Aaron’s octogenarian father. “That’s what my son calls me. You do the same. After all, you are going to be my daughter come Saturday.”

  “Okay, Pops.” It had a certain spring to it. “Anyway, sorry about this flat business.”

  He smiled, and I’m sure his mouth had to work hard to push aside the wrinkles. “I’m not. I wanted a chance to talk to you alone.”

  “You did? Look, Pops, I’m not marrying your son for your money. I inherited my own farm, and thanks to the PennDutch, I have all the money I’ll ever need.”

  I was charmed by his laugh, although it did sound like a frog croaking. “I always knew you had a good head on your shoulders, Magdalena. Not like what’s-her-name.”

  “Her name is Susannah,” I said loyally, “and she’s been your neighbor for thirty-four years, ever since the day she was born.”

  “Ah, yes, Susannah. At my age, names and dates sometimes get lost. Anyway, I’m glad to hear that you are financially set, because Aaron isn’t going to inherit anything.”

  “What?” I didn’t mean to say it so loud.

  “My father took a big loss in the Depression, and we inherited a huge mortgage. Then back in the seventies we had to remortgage the place—soaring fuel prices for the machinery and falling beef prices. Something about steak being high in cholesterol. At any rate, I’m broke.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, no, I’m sure it’s true. Beefworld had an article on cholesterol—”

  “I mean about being broke, dear.”