by Tamar Myers
Agnes’s giggles turned to peals of laughter. Happy laughter at that!
‘Oh, Magdalena, for once you’ve jumped to exactly the right conclusions, and your judgemental paranoia is going to be richly rewarded. After you dropped me off here yesterday, Doc and I talked for hours – all day, really – and then we, uh, got to know each other better all night. Doc has asked me to move in with him and be his kept woman, and I’ve accepted. How exciting is that?’
Exciting? Yes, in the sense that my heart was racing and my legs had turned to rubber. If it hadn’t been for the still-strong arms of old Doc, who had finished his business by then, I would have had an unfortunate meeting with his coffee table. Instead, he managed to catch me. Then he carried me over to his personal recliner, which has a remote control, and had me lie back in it. Well, of course, I wouldn’t stand for lying prone. I promptly righted myself.
‘You can’t do this to me,’ I wailed. The ensuing silence was deafening; my ears screamed like sirens, the blood roared through my body and my heart beat like a bass drum. Oh, horse manure, I thought to myself, now I have really done it. I have gone too far. Everyone in Hernia and the surrounding County of Bedford is going to think that for two decades – ever since his wife passed – dear old Doc and the strumpet without a crumpet have been doing the ‘bump it.’ It wasn’t true, of course, but throughout history folks have found it more fun to pass along gossip and slander than to speak the truth.
At any rate, while I was left hanging in this noisy breeze of silence, Alison was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands and staring at me with something akin to wonder in her large hazel eyes. As for the new lovebirds, they were exchanging little glances and mouthing words that might have made me sick, had I been able to hear them.
‘Well,’ Agnes said at last, ‘it’s always good to clear the air, don’t you think?’
‘But what will people think?’ I protested. ‘You both come from good Amish-Mennonite stock who came over on the Charming Nancy in 1738. The best families in Hernia; your ancestors are listed in Gingerich and Kreider’s genealogical reference book, the best of its kind. You have ancestors who settled the area as pioneers, which means that you can be buried up on Stucky Ridge.’
‘You can see for ten miles in every direction from up there,’ Alison said. What a dear she was for trying to help her mama at a time like this.
‘Let us not forget,’ I said, ‘that cohabitation outside the bonds of marriage is a sin. This saith the Lord, and not just Magdalena.’
‘Whoa,’ said Alison. ‘Mama, you lost me there with them big words.’
‘It means that they’re fornicating,’ I snapped. Understandably, I was stressed, seeing as how my two best friends were sinning with each other, and not with me. This is not to say that I would ever, in a zillion years – not even in ‘God’s time’– want them to sin with me, but still, the mental image of their entwined limbs rankled this poor wretch’s soul something awful. This is something that the amazing grace of God can help one overcome, but I wasn’t ready just yet.
Sometimes it feels good to stew in one’s own juices. Ask any rankled wretch and they’ll tell you I’m right. We pick away at our scabs, we scratch dangerously at our itches, all because we are mortal. On our own, we are helpless to control our baser instincts. ‘The Devil made me do it,’ is the truth, and it’s something that agnostics and atheists are just too blind to see.
‘What does “fornicate” mean?’ Alison said. ‘I don’t see them doing nothing right now except looking kinda goofy.’
‘The “kinda goofy” look,’ Agnes said, ‘is because we’re in love.’
‘No sh—oot! Ya mean I look like that too when I’m in love?’
Agnes let loose with a string of her disgusting giggles. ‘Even worse. Once, you—’
‘Doc,’ I said angrily, ‘how can you stand there and let her say that you’re in love when all these years you’ve been mourning your dear, departed wife by still setting a place for her at the table?’
My oldest friend squared his shoulders. ‘That place setting was for you – in hopes that you would stop by, which you sometimes did.’
‘But then you’d add another,’ I said.
‘Magdalena, you were always such a prim and proper lady – so buttoned up in your self-righteousness. There I was, a randy old widower, burning with desire for you – what was I to do? I did everything but hit you over the head with a club and drag you off to my bedroom. You may have thought I was just an eccentric old man and that it was harmless flirtation, but I was seriously trying to woo you.’
‘Woo, woo!’ Alison hooted, sounding quite like the Great Horned Owl that lives in the giant oak tree at the end of our pasture.
Meanwhile, poor Agnes was picking at her cuticles and fighting back tears. As for moi: I was immensely flattered by the heartfelt confessions of one friend, but at the same time feeling terrible for the other. If only I had the heart of stone that some have accused me of possessing; how much easier life would be then. As it stood now, I wanted to beat my breast in agonized dichotomous confusion, but lacking significant breastbone flesh, such an action would be unduly painful, and no doubt result in bruises that would be hard to explain to my Dearly Beloved.
The saying is that you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Well, I had eaten many of Doc’s cakes – and pies. He was a fabulous cook. The fact is that I had never thought of Doc as a serious marriage partner. He was over thirty years older than me, for crying out loud! He was, to put it frankly, a wizened, grizzled geezer. A lech. He’d been a contemporary of my parents, and was first cousin to Mama and second cousin to Papa. Grandma Yoder’s ghost – er, Apparition American – would have looked down her long (née Hostetler) nose at him and sneered, because when Doc was a boy he was always getting into trouble of some sort or another (as bright lads are wont to do).
Well, that ship had clearly sailed, as another saying goes. It was time for me to let go of half-baked fantasies and ill-defined dreams, and to quit being arbitrator of moral law. Besides, who was I to throw the first stone, anyway? I am, in fact, so awful at throwing balls that any stone that I would throw would most probably circle back and hit me like a boomerang. I would probably deserve it, too.
I’m afraid that I took a bit too long, taking stock of my judgmental self. I do, after all, tend to meander down the irregular hallways of an unorthodox mind. Now it was time for me to redeem myself.
‘I have just two words for you lovebirds,’ I shouted. ‘Mazel tov!’
‘Yay!’ Alison shouted as well and jumped up and down, clapping excitedly.
Agnes looked up from her nails. ‘Really, Mags? You mean it?’
‘I mean it with all my heart. The two of you are my dearest friends. What else should I want, except that you keep each other safe and healthy and happy?’
‘Well done, friend,’ Doc said. Under normal circumstances he would have hugged me after a highly charged moment such as that, but it was just as well that he remained where he was, framed by the doorway of the hall.
‘OK,’ Alison said, ‘now that we have all the gooey stuff over with, it’s time to get down to business.’
I stared at her with amazement. We all did, in fact.
‘Some assistant, I have, eh?’ I said, feeling a mite embarrassed.
Doc cleared his throat. ‘She’s the cat’s pyjamas; no doubt about it.’
‘Hey, wait a minute,’ Alison blurted, arms akimbo. ‘Is that a good thing or bad?’
‘Decidedly good,’ Agnes said with a weak smile. ‘OK then, I acquiesce. Commence your infamous grilling, Torquemada. The sooner you’ve checked us off your list of suspects, the sooner we can get on with our wedding plans. By the way, I hope you realize that I want you to be my matron of honor.’
It may not be possible for a forty-nine-year-old woman to squeal like a nine-year-old girl, unless she has done something truly horrible like placed her hand over the top of a palm-sized spid
er while getting up to use the ladies’ room at night, or chanced to come upon her mother-in-law naked. Both events left that poor woman badly shaken and as skittish as a colt in a rattlesnake den. This time I squealed out of genuine, unbridled joy for the bride-to-be. I have always wanted to participate in a wedding, without having to worry about those three minutes of inconvenience which every woman must endure on her wedding night.
‘And,’ Agnes went on to say, when there was a chance that she might be heard, ‘Alison, I would like you to be my bridesmaid.’
Alison put one hand on her heart, but the other up in front of her as if to stop a runaway stagecoach. ‘I can’t!’ she protested.
‘Why can’t you, dear?’ I said. ‘It’s a great honor.’ I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘Besides, Auntie Agnes will be hurt if you don’t accept.’
I should have known that I would raise a child who is a stranger to guile. ‘Oh, Auntie Agnes,’ Alison said, ‘I just can’t be seen clomping around in high heels while trying not to step on a frumpy dress in some hideous color that has a bow on the back bigger than the one Minnie Mouse wears in her hair.’ She said that all in one breath.
Much to my surprise, Agnes laughed and clapped her hands. ‘Oh, honey, you can wear whatever you want, just as long as it comes down to your knees and covers your shoulders. And any color except for white – that is reserved for the bride.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Now, Agnes, strictly speaking, isn’t white—’
‘Shut up, Magdalena,’ Agnes said. She wasn’t smiling, either.
‘Now that we have those details taken care of,’ Doc said, with a glint of approval in his eyes, ‘how about we celebrate with a piece of homemade chocolate peanut butter pie?’
‘In the middle of the morning?’ I said. ‘Won’t that spoil our appetites for lunch?’
‘So what?’ Doc said. ‘What’s the worst thing that will happen? You’ll eat less for lunch. Big deal. Instead, let’s just be thankful that we have the opportunity to spoil our taste buds with something this delicious. Did I mention that you can have as much real whipped cream on your slice as you wish?’
‘OK, Doc, you’ve twisted my arm. But now I’m going to show you my gratitude by telling you a secret.’
FIFTEEN
DOC SHAFER’S RECIPE FOR GREEN-TOMATO PIE
Makes 8 servings
6 or 7 medium-size firm green tomatoes without blemishes (and without wrinkles if you want to peel them), approximately 3 cups when chopped
2 tablespoons lemon juice
½ teaspoon salt
¾ teaspoon cinnamon
¾ cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
Top and bottom pie crusts
1 tablespoon margarine or butter
Wash the tomatoes. Peel them if you want, but it’s a lot of trouble and not really necessary. Cut the tomatoes into bite-size pieces. Combine the tomato bits with the next three ingredients in a saucepan. Cook for about fifteen minutes. Mix the sugar and cornstarch together and slowly stir into the tomato mixture. Cook for a few minutes, until the sugar and cornstarch become clear. Add margarine and allow to cool slightly. Line a nine-inch pie pan with the bottom crust and pour in the tomato mixture. Put on top crust and seal the edges. Crimp narrow strips of aluminium foil around the edge to prevent it from getting too brown. Poke numerous holes with a fork across the top to allow steam to escape. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes at 425 degrees. Some people like to eat the pie warm, but Doc much prefers it cold.
SIXTEEN
Doc makes his own pie crusts. They always turn out tender and flaky, but for the chocolate peanut butter pie he makes a graham cracker crust. Let’s face it, I enjoy being the center of attention, and I enjoy drama, just as long as I don’t suffer financially from it. Ergo, I studiously mashed every speck of graham cracker onto the tines of my fork, and made a great show of licking them off before I commenced to spill my promised secret. But by then my little audience was properly primed; which is exactly how it should have been.
‘You know that very handsome new minister at the First Mennonite Church?’ I said.
‘Well, of course,’ Agnes said. ‘Pastor Nate’s my minister; you know that’s why I go to church.’
‘Quite so, dear. Then you might enjoy this little titbit of harmless gossip all the more.’
‘Hold it there,’ Doc growled. ‘Gossip is seldom, if ever, harmless. We’ve been over this before, Magdalena; even if it hurts no one else, gossip always diminishes the teller.’
‘Yeah,’ Alison said. ‘What’s a teller, Uncle Doc?’
‘Magdalena,’ Agnes said in her patient voice, ‘it was you who got me to see that Jesus came down very hard on the subject of divorce, but he had nothing at all to say on the subject of homosexuality.’
Doc laughed. ‘One man, one woman – folks who want that to be the law of the land, although they still want the right to get remarried after a divorce – those folks are the epitome of hypocrites. One of our venerable statesman, for example, has been married three times. There you have the perfect example of one man, and one woman, and another woman, and another woman.’
‘You are both absolutely right,’ I said. ‘However, the secret which I am about to divulge has nothing to do with Pastor Nate being gay, for the simple reason because he isn’t.’
‘Now that’s a surprise,’ Agnes said. ‘I thought you got most of your information by sticking your long Yoder nose into other people’s beeswax. Now I’m beginning to doubt that. Because if you really did, then you might come to the same conclusion that the rest of us already reached a long time ago: that Pastor Nate is a gay man, who is very good at suppressing his true nature and passing himself off as straight.’
‘Is that so?’ I said.
Agnes gave me a pitying look that was probably well-deserved. ‘You poor dear, and you call yourself an amateur detective? Just because Pastor Nate is so handsome, virile and rugged, and – uh – looks rather like Hugh Jackman, minus the wolverine claws, you think he’s heterosexual?’
‘What about you, Agnes,’ Doc said, sounding more than a mite miffed, ‘do you want to jump his bones?’
‘Why, Doc Shafor,’ Agnes said, ‘I am shocked by your language! Need I remind you, fiancé of mine, that there’s a child present?’
‘Hey,’ Alison said, ‘how many times do I hafta remind ya that I ain’t no child?’
‘People,’ I said, ‘a word, if I may. Alison, you are a young woman, so act like one. Doc, I’ve made my peace with you loving Agnes; go for it. Agnes, your pastor is definitely not gay; so theoretically you could jump his bones. Now, what I wanted to say is this: Reverend Nathaniel Troyer, pastor of The First Mennonite Church of Hernia, Pennsylvania was carrying on a secret affair with the trollop who packed a wallop that sent our little village flying to bookshelves across America, and in the process exposed our foibles and made a mockery of our noble way of life.’
Both adults appeared stunned, whilst the teen’s face lighted up with renewed interest. ‘Yeah? That’s dope!’ she said, using her latest dopey slang word. Then seeing my look of disapproval she added, ‘I mean, like, what’s this world coming to anyway?’
When Alison trotted out that hackneyed phrase she’d learned from me, which has been used by adults from time in memoriam, we three grownups couldn’t help but laugh. But for Agnes, the laughter was short-lived.
‘Magdalena,’ she said, stretching as tall as she could, and thus no longer forming a near perfect sphere, ‘you better be darn well sure of this. You could be sued for libel.’
‘How well do you know your Bible?’ I said. It was a rhetorical question: even liberal Mennonites, like Agnes, try to read through the entire Bible once a year.
‘Get to your point,’ Agnes snarled.
‘My source was King Ahab himself.’
‘What? That doesn’t make sense – unless you’re trying to say that Pastor Nate is supposed to be King Ahab and Ramat Sreym is the wicked Queen Jezebel. Therefore it wa
s Pastor Nate who told you this news himself.’
‘Bingo,’ I said. ‘In fact, he told me down in his basement office, just off your social hall, with its delightful scents of tuna casserole and weak, decaffeinated coffee. I am quite certain that the word “bingo” has been uttered more than once down there.’
‘You are so vulgar!’ Agnes’s eyes burned with fury.
‘She meant the game,’ Doc said.
‘Oh, well, still, she’s trying to get my goat.’ Agnes turned back to me, eyes still ablaze. ‘We’re not Catholics; they’re the ones who play Bingo. We’re Mennonites; we eat.’
‘I didn’t know that Auntie Agnes had a goat,’ Alison said. ‘Why can’t we have – oh, yeah, it’s just an expression.’
‘Agnes,’ Doc said, ‘it seems to me that you’re inordinately bent out of shape by the thought of your pastor and Ramat having an affair. It sounds like you’re taking it personally.’
My stout friend spun; it was like watching a top. ‘Of course I’m taking it personally. I feel betrayed. That woman ridiculed me in her book, and this man – my spiritual leader – was being intimate with her? And it’s not just me; it is anyone else who might have come to him for premarital counselling, etc. – and meanwhile he was fornicating. Fornicating.’
‘There’s that fancy word again,’ Alison said.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘please consider the following. Before most of us have actually read Ramat’s ding-dong book, Sam asks her to be one of the judges for our historic annual apple pie contest. It was a brilliant move on her part to accept because, as you know, the Hernia Heritage Days Apple Festival lasts a week, with apple dunking, cider, sauces—’
‘Mags,’ Doc said, ‘you usually mean well, but you’re as long-winded as a Baptist preacher.’
‘Amen,’ Agnes said.
I glowered kindly at her – so to speak. ‘Well, anyway, I think that it’s entirely possible that Pastor Nate is the one who poisoned Miss Sreym. After all, she was sitting between him and Wanda Hemphopple on the judges’ platform. The only reason that Toy didn’t grill him like a weenie at the time is – well, because Toy is a Southern gentleman. In the South, the clergy are put on pedestals where they reign like demigods. Then every decade or so it seems they invariably give in to the sins of the flesh, or the temptations of the offering plate.’