by Tamar Myers
Now it is true that some in our community disapproved of a so-called ‘foreign element’ intruding into our culture through our stomachs. Others were merely afraid of going into total withdrawal, having already suffered through months of deprivation from starch, sugar and grease. Nonetheless, those folks who, on principle, were against an Asian restaurant coming to our town, were still quite happy that it was going to happen regardless, because it gave them a legitimate excuse to complain. In a community as small and inbred as ours, whinging has been elevated to an art form, and it brings meaning to many a lonely person’s life.
The one complaint that I did not expect came from my Jewish mother-in-law, Ida Rosen, a.k.a. Mother Malaise, the self-styled nun who’d invented a religion based on the Theology of Disengagement. The sisters’ beliefs are simple: all is lost, so nothing matters, and therefore it behoves one to simply stop caring about anything. Irony, however, is not Mother Malaise’s forte. A year ago, she hired a bus to take her and the other forty-four nuns (two of whom are men!) on an evangelizing tour, spreading the gospel of apathy across Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Michigan. The turnout was pathetic, and no converts were made.
I think that one should wonder just how this recently invented religion came about, because its premise is absolutely ridiculous. And how could something that was concocted so recently be taken seriously? If I had half an imagination, I could think up my own crazy cult, declare myself its prophetess, and then go in search of a bunch of idiots who would swallow my codswallop, hook, line and sinker.
In this case, one should especially wonder why the founding of Mother Malaise’s new religion coincided with my wedding to the Babester. When I made it quite clear that the woman who sneaked into our bedroom every evening to sniff her son’s pillow would not be living with us at The PennDutch Inn, Ida flew into a rage.
‘You vill pay for dis,’ she railed repeatedly, at a volume I’ve heard topped only by a bull in heat.
‘Ma,’ Gabe said repeatedly and plaintively. I would never divulge my most private thoughts to a living soul. That said, although Gabe can function like a bull in some respects, when it comes to his mother, he acts more like a lamb led to the slaughter.
‘Mrs Rosen,’ I said, ‘your son has graciously consented to give you his house, which is directly across the road from The PennDutch Inn. It’s a historic house too. The Miller family built that the same year that my ancestor, Jacob the Strong, built the original part of my farmhouse that is now my inn.’
‘Yah?’ Ida scoffed. ‘Vell, eet eez a dump.’
‘Ma,’ Gabe said.
‘Mrs Rosen,’ I said, with all the sweetness of a rhubarb stalk, ‘then perhaps you should return to New York.’
‘New York? Vhy?’
‘Magdalena!’ Gabe said.
‘Because you have often spoken of how much you miss your friends there and’ – I bit my tongue for a millisecond – ‘how much better your life there was than it is here.’
‘Den mebbe I vill!’
‘Magdalena!’ Gabe said.
‘Yes, dear?’ I said sweetly.
‘This is my mother whom you’re trying to banish. She’s the woman who gave birth to me.’
‘Yah! Tirty-six hours of de most terrible pain to birz dis man.’
‘Nonsense. I know for a fact, unless your son’s a liar, that he weighed a mere six pounds and that he slid out like a sardine packed in oil. From start to finish, your labour lasted less than an hour. His son, however, weighed—’
‘Magdalena, I order you to stop haranguing my mother! Can’t you see that she’s crying?’
I stopped, all right. Given that I ran out of what I still considered to be Gabe’s house and didn’t stop until I arrived breathless back at The PennDutch Inn. At that point I was so exhausted both physically and emotionally that I couldn’t have harangued an orangutan, even if I had had a banana on a pole and he’d been locked in a cage. In a word, I was a wreck.
Things have a way of sorting themselves out, and eventually the Babester and I got back on track. However, I stood my ground, and refused to let that four-foot-nine, not-so-divine mother of his move in with us. Likewise, she kept her word and set about making me pay for attempting to sever the apron strings of steel that connected her to her ‘baby boy’.
I will give Ida credit for one thing: she can, if properly motivated, think fast on her cloven hooves. The day following our altercation, she drove into Hernia and posted a notice on the cork board just inside Sam Yoder’s Corner Market. Incidentally, Sam is a double second cousin of mine, so the fact that he allowed her to do this is nothing short of betrayal. At any rate, the notice read as follows:
DO YOU JUST NOT CARE ANYMORE?
If your life seems hopeless, and you no longer care about anything, or anyone, then why bother trying to fit in with the rest of the world? If you’re tired of the rat race, of trying to keep up with your neighbours, of politics – then get away from it all!
Come join the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy. We are a cloistered group of nuns who will be occupying a new Sister House opposite The PennDutch Inn. We welcome everyone over age eighteen to join, regardless of previous religious affiliation. Although our regular habits will be hooded brown robes, within the confines of the convent nudity is encouraged. Postulants are given names that connote a defeatist attitude.
Our only doctrine is: ‘We don’t care!’
The note also included Ida’s contact information. It’s been said that misery loves company. That explains why, before all was said and done, the world’s shortest Jewish mother morphed into a mother superior, one Mother Malaise, with a devoted flock of forty-four nuns. Sadly, her followers weren’t sincerely apathetic; they were Hernia’s broken-hearted (who even knew that we had so many?). The majority of them were lonely widows, one as young as twenty-nine. Seven of them were divorcees (which is a status quite rare in these parts), and three others were women who had recently come out as lesbians (a phenomenon totally unheard of hereabouts), and of course the two men. The latter were Agnes Miller’s elderly uncles, who were habitual nudists and had the bad habit of shucking their habits. Finally, Mother Malaise gave up and allowed all of her followers to prance around in their birthday suits within the confines of the convent. Mercifully, they had to wear her hideous costumes when they ventured into the outside world.
Take it from me, our conservative community was scandalized by this home-grown cult of women in coarse monks’ robes and cheap plastic sandals, or less, who had so easily broken their baptismal vows to follow after the genuine Whore of Babylon (in other words, a New Yorker). You can bet your bippy that everyone, including my new groom, blamed me for this state of affairs.
All things must come to an end, I guess, including ill will. After a while the citizens of Hernia realized that they needed my largess, or else their property taxes would have to be increased. Likewise, the Babester concluded that he needed to come around in his thinking, if he were ever to have another opportunity to bellow like a bull again within the confines of our boudoir. Of course, Mother Malaise and her minions were quite another story.
It wasn’t until after I gave birth to her grandson, Little Jacob, and had him circumcised according to the ancient Covenant, and by a proper rabbi, that she ceased to torment me. From that day forward, she merely badmouthed, pestered, and purposely annoyed me. But hey, I’m not one for complaining.
At any rate, Mother Malaise, a.k.a. Ida, showed up uninvited for breakfast just two days after Hortense came calling. On such occasions I am inclined not to answer the doorbell, but Alison dotes on her adopted grandmother, plus Gabe is tied to his mother’s apron with strings of steel. Only Little Jacob, bless his toddler heart, pays as little attention to the woman as he does to developing table manners. Fortunately, on this particular day I had already managed to eat most of my meal before she appeared at the kitchen door, like a giant grey moth, shrouded as she was in her homemade habit and ridiculous wimple that extended in back as far down as the
top of her buttocks. I scanned down to her extra wide men’s sandals for signs of smashed dahlias. The woman is no respecter of boundaries, physical or emotional, and she often takes a shortcut to the door through my heirloom flower bed.
‘Nu,’ she said, ‘vhat eez dis I hear about you, Magdalena, and a massage parlour?’
‘What?’ three of us exclaimed in unison. Little Jacob, however, was too busy rubbing soggy cereal into his hair to be startled by his grandmother’s question.
‘Zees Asian Zinsations. Eez a house of zin, yah?’
‘What is zin?’ Alison asked.
‘Finish drinking your milk, hon,’ Gabe said. ‘Then go wait out front for the school bus; it will be here any minute.’
‘Ah, do I hafta?’ Alison moaned.
‘Yes, you have to, dear,’ I said.
‘I ain’t no baby,’ Alison said. She gulped most of what was left in her glass, belched loudly, and stomped the long way out of the house, which took her through the dining room and guest reception area. Much to my surprise, Ida refrained from commenting on Alison’s rude behaviour.
‘Explain – dear,’ I said to Ida, and not quite endearingly either.
First Ida shuffled around to Little Jacob’s highchair and pinched both his cheeks. This supposed act of affection set the wee one bawling in pain, which in turn caused his papa to howl in sympathy, and finally, Yours Truly succumbed to temptation and scowled in indignation.
‘Mother Malaise,’ I said, pointedly using her religious name, ‘how many times have we told you that it hurts him when you do that?’
True to character, my mother-in-law ignored my question. ‘Nu, Magdalena, so vhy is you bringing zees streep club to our Hernia and not telling me?’
‘Strip club?’ Gabe said.
‘Yah, das is vhat I said. Asian Zinsations – first dey strip, and den dey massage. I see a club wiz dis wary same name on dee U-boob.’
‘You mean YouTube?’ Gabe said.
His mother shrugged, an action which brought her shoulders up to her ears and which nearly forced off her wimple. Ida has no discernible neck, and her cleavage extends upwards almost to her chin. Nonetheless, the habit that she wears, which is of her own design, features a disturbingly deep neckline.
‘Vhatever,’ she said. ‘My point eez dat zee Sisters of Perpetual Apathy und I are in need of foonds und vould like to verk der?’
‘Ma,’ Gabe said calmly, ‘what are foonds? Is that a Yiddish word?’
Ida glared at her son. ‘Money! Vee need money because my son, zee rich heart surgeon, don’t give us enough to live on.’
‘What?’ I cried. ‘Gabe, are you giving my money to that – that – cult? The Apostles of Doom?’
‘Eez Sisters of Perpetual Apathy,’ Ida said. ‘Und vhat my son does vees heez money, eez heez business.’
‘Ma,’ Gabe said plaintively, ‘please don’t antagonize my wife.’
Ida’s dark eyes flashed. ‘Yah? Und who came first? Dee chicken, or dee egg?’
I raised my arm. ‘I know, I know. I learned the answer to this in Sunday school when I was a little girl: the chicken came first. It says in Genesis 1:20-21 that God created birds, but it doesn’t even mention eggs in the creation account, so it’s safe to assume that eggs came later.’
‘Oy,’ Ida said. ‘Vhat a genius dat one,’ she said to Gabe, but clearly referring to me. Then, in what can only be described as a miracle, she swivelled her head completely around in my direction, and in the process lost her accent. ‘So, Magdalena, I was thinking. You’re going to be needing women – and a few men – to work in your strip joint and, of course, to give the massages. Well, as you know, my ladies and I, and my two men, dispense with wearing our habits every Tuesday, which is our Sabbath. This means that we are very comfortable with our bodies—’
‘It’s a restaurant!’ I bellowed. ‘Asian Sensations is a restaurant.’
Ida blinked. ‘Yah? Are you sure?’
‘I’m positive. I’m a million percent sure.’
‘Vhat a pity!’ Ida caught a corner of her wimple in a pudgy fist and tossed it over her shoulder in what I assumed was supposed to be a suggestive manner. Then she tugged her deep scoop neckline even lower and came dangerously close to unleashing her behemoth of a bosom.
‘Ma!’ Gabe said.
‘Ma!’ Little Jacob said from his highchair as he pounded his plastic spoon on its tray. ‘Ma, Ma, Ma!’
At least Ida had the decency to pull up her neckline before blowing her grandson a kiss. ‘Vell den,’ she said to me, ‘I vill be your cook, yah?’
‘You vill be my cook, no,’ I said.
‘No, no, no,’ Little Jacob sang happily as he resumed pounding his spoon, for ‘no’ was his new favourite word. ‘No, no, no, no, no, no.’
‘You tell her,’ I said, in a moment of unchristian behaviour. ‘And look here, since you managed to convince a group of retirees to join your cult, all of them on Social Security, and some with supplementary pensions, as well, plus you’re living in a house which your son gave you, free and clear, then you should be living pretty high on the hog.’
Ida gasped with horror, feigned I have no doubt. ‘Did dis vomen yoost call me a pig?’
Gabe held his handsome head in his well-groomed surgeon’s hands. ‘No, Ma. It’s an expression that means that you should have plenty of foonds – funds – to live on.’
‘Yah? Eez dat so?’ Ida closed her eyes tightly. I could see her straining to squeeze out tears, but her ducts apparently were as dry as the Sahara desert.
‘I guess that settles it,’ I said with forced nonchalance. It took almost as much straining on my part not to sound exasperated.
Ida opened her eyes and wiped imaginary tears away with the burlap sleeve of her food-stained habit. ‘Mebbe vee have political expirations, und vee need extra money for dee campaigns.’
‘Come again?’ I said.
‘She means aspirations,’ Gabe said.
‘Or maybe you’re just bored,’ I offered.
‘Yah,’ my nemesis said. ‘Dis could be. So, now I have another idea.’
FIVE
‘You vill be needing vaitresses, yah?’ Ida said to me in a much nicer tone. Fortunately I knew what she was up to. I am dense, after all, but I’m no Christmas pudding.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I need classy waitresses, not ones who dress like thirteenth-century monks.’
‘Vas dat an insult?’
‘No. It was only an objective description of the shmatta that you’re wearing.’
Ida threw up her hands, precipitating an avalanche of baggy burlap sleeves that almost muffled her outcry. ‘Oy! So now she speaks Yiddish already. I thought she was a shikse, Gabeleh.’
‘She is, Ma. But maybe not for long.’
‘Don’t count on it, dear,’ I said. I turned back to Ida. ‘Who knows, maybe your son will see the light and become a Christian.’
Ida felt around through the thick fabric of her robe until she located the approximate location of her heart. ‘Over my dead body.’
Before I had the chance to tell Ida just how happy I would be to gaze upon her corpse, my husband had to open his big mouth with a plan to appease his mother. At this point I feel that I should make it quite clear that not all Christians are as mean-spirited as I can be. Certainly, very few Mennonites exhibit my failings. More to the point, I doubt if any other Jewish mothers are as possessive of their sons as was Ida Rosen, and if they are, I don’t see how any of their sons could be as compliant as was the Babester.
Therefore, I should be eternally grateful that before I could open my trap, Gabe clapped his hands to get his two feuding women’s full attention. He clapped them hard, which got both his mother’s and my attention. The gesture also inspired Little Jacob to clap his hands, which by then had been reloaded with wet oatmeal. The cereal splattered in all directions, delighting my son to no end. Frankly, I saw this as nothing short of God’s grace.
‘I think I have a solution,’ Gabe sai
d.
‘To what?’ I said. ‘I’m not looking for an answer to a crossword puzzle clue. Please allow me to reiterate my position: Asian Sensations is going to be a classy place with a dress code. Enough said. There, was that kinder this time?’
Gabe grinned. ‘Yeah, maybe a bit. Mags, have you ever heard the song “Puttin’ on the Ritz”?’
‘Hey, I know that one,’ Ida said, losing her accent again. ‘It made its debut in a film back in 1930. Fred Astaire did some of his best dance moves in it. The lyrics go like this.’
Then to my utter amazement, the Babester grabbed his mother and the two of them began to dance around the kitchen, just as nimble and light-footed as fawns, and surely just as sinful as fauns, the mythical lustful hybrid which is an abomination just by itself. As for the dancing, everyone knows that we Mennonites are forbidden to have sex while in a standing position, lest that lead to dancing, so it is clearly forbidden.
But let us return to the rollicking Rosens; not only were they dancing, but they were singing. Gabe has a beautiful baritone voice. Shockingly, Ida’s baritone voice is almost as pleasant. Little Jacob, a soprano, was still in the monotone stage, but he joined in nonetheless. Even I couldn’t resist. You can bet your bippy that I didn’t dance, although I might have tapped my right foot. Meanwhile, just to make sure that the Devil didn’t get the wrong idea, I brayed some stanzas from one or two of my favourite hymns.
When the singing ended, Gabe led his precious Ma back to a chair where she made a great show of catching her breath. Because he didn’t seem at all worried about the state of her health then, I concluded that the two of them had ‘tripped the light fantastic’ together before. I had heard that curious phrase used by my worldly sister Susannah, and subsequently looked it up in the library in Bedford. It refers to dancing, and its origin is to be found in a poem by John Milton titled ‘L’Allegro’.