As the World Churns

by Tamar Myers

  Ida Rosen looked as if her only son had slapped her across the face. “Nu, so now you talk back to your mother?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma, but you have to respect the woman I chose to marry.”

  “Respect, shmect. If dis von”—she pointed at me with her chin—“and me vere drowning, who vould you jump in to save?”

  “I’d save you both. I’m a good swimmer, thanks to all those summers I spent at Camp Minimitzvah.”

  “Ya, but if you had to choose?”

  “Then I guess I’d save Magdalena.”

  “For this I come to live in Hemorrhoid?” Ida Rosen stabbed repeatedly at her enormous bosom with a make-believe knife. “Oy, the pain. The pain.”

  “It’s Hernia,” I said, and grabbing her by equally ample shoulders, steered her over to the bed. “And if you insist on dying now, dear”—I gave her a gentle push—“then do it here. You’ll be much more comfy.”

  She allowed herself to topple back onto the mattress, which was surprisingly soft, and proceeded to moan about her multiple injuries, both to body and soul. Gabe, who wasn’t at all fooled, turned his full attention to me.

  “What do you want to do first, hon?”

  “Besides get your mother on that slow boat bound for Fiji?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll call Susannah and break the news to her. I’m also going to tell her to get over to the PennDutch pronto. Meanwhile you call Freni at the inn. Tell her to make sure Alison’s inside, and then lock the door. Then someone needs to call Doc Shafor—Oh shoot! What about Barbara and the triplets?”

  My new husband pulled me to his chest and held me tightly, seemingly oblivious to his sputtering mother on the bed. I’m only human, ergo I should not be judged too harshly if I gently maneuvered him so that Ida could see my smile. But just to be clear, we weren’t dancing.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Magdalena. They’ll locate Melvin any minute, and I bet dollars to doughnuts that they find him inside that maximum-security prison. And even if he did manage to make it outside, I won’t let him hurt you.”

  I wiggled my way to freedom. “Me? I’m not worried about myself, dear; I’m worried about you.”

  But two weeks had passed, and the menacing, murderous mantis had neither been seen nor heard from. It would have all seemed like a bad dream, were it not for the fact that PennDutch was filled with relatives. There was Freni and her husband, Mose, who are both some sort of cousin to me—in fact, in so many ways, it is possible that they qualify as my siblings. Then there was their son, Jonathan, and his wife, Barbara (although from Iowa, she’s distantly related to all of us), plus their triplets. And of course there was Susannah, who is my sister, but given our family’s convoluted relationships, probably a cousin as well. Last, and arguably least (in terms of blood shared), there was Doc Shafor, an octogenarian with the libido of a bonobo on steroids.

  Oops, I forgot about Alison. She’s only a pseudo-stepdaughter, but she has Miller blood trickling through her persnickety teenage veins. This means she too is my cousin, possibly even my aunt—but most probably not my mother. At any rate, such is to be expected in a community as inbred as ours.

  As a matter of fact, prick anyone in Hernia whose family has local roots going back two generations, and you’ll be bled on by one of my kinfolk. I advise you not to do it. But do try living with this bunch underfoot, whilst maintaining the cheerful Christian visage for which I am so well-known. It is not humanly possible.

  Now throw into this chaotic mixture the smell of fear, the needs of newlyweds, and the mother-in-law from Gehenna, and what do you get? A Magdalena Yoder who wakes up screaming at the top of her lungs.

  “Hon! Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

  “What? What? Who’s there?”

  “Apparently Melvin. You’ve been thrashing about shouting his name.”

  “Oh yeah. I dreamt I had him in a headlock, but his head came off, and the inside was filled with cheese. Limburger cheese.”

  “Do peace-loving Mennonites often use the headlock maneuver?”

  “Well—we can’t be responsible for our dreams, can we?”

  “Keep answering a question with a question, and you’ll automatically turn Jewish. That’s a proven fact.”

  “Says who?”

  Like Solomon wooing Bathsheba, my beloved began planting kisses on…

  “Oh my stars!”

  “Already?”

  I threw off the covers. “The first Annual Hernia Holstein Competition begins next week. The first guests will be arriving today and I’m nowhere near ready.” I hopped out of bed, threw on my robe, and paced the room in circles like a chicken in a crate. The bird noises I made were instinctual, but not intentional.

  “Babe, calm down. You’re practically hyperventilating.”

  “Buck, buck, buck, brack. Buck, buck, buck, brack. Buck, buck—”

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “—and what am I going to do about my rooms that have been taken over by family?”

  “How about we put them up in my house?”

  “But they’re paying through their noses to stay at the infamous PennDutch. These folks have had reservations for over a year.”

  “No, I mean that we put the relatives up at my house, so that the guests can stay here.”

  “You mean that?” It was, of course, the perfect solution. Gabe still owned the house just across the road. It was empty now, because Ida hadn’t wanted to be alone with a convicted murderer on the prowl, but if the whole shebang moved over there with her, she wouldn’t be alone anymore, would she?

  “Of course I mean it. And don’t worry, I’ll take good care of them, so you’ll be free to look after your guests here.”

  Why is it that we women can read between the lines, whereas most men can’t even tell when the lines have been crossed? I could see Ida’s handwriting all over this page.

  “You’re going to be staying at your house, aren’t you?”

  “It’s only temporary.”

  “So is appendicitis.”

  “Take it easy, hon. There’s no need to get all worked up about this. I’m less than two minutes away. For all intents and purposes, it’s just like being here.”

  “Hmm. You’ve got a point. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll move over there too. It’ll give the guests more freedom that way.”

  “Yes, but—I mean, there isn’t enough room.”

  “Sure, there is. I’ll be sleeping with you, silly. I know, it’s hard to get used to the fact that we’re married. Now we can do anything we want—except have sex standing up.”

  “Because it might lead to dancing?”

  “Bingo. The worst of sins. Dancing, that is. Although bingo is a sin, too, if it’s for money, because then it becomes a form of gambling—”

  “There won’t be room because Ma will be bunking with me.”

  I jiggled pinkies in both ears to make sure they were working properly. “What did you say?”

  “We have to double up, hon, or there won’t be space for everyone.”

  Is it truly just as bad to think nasty thoughts as to say them? And if that is the case, wouldn’t it be healthier to say the bad thoughts aloud, thereby venting steam and lowering one’s blood pressure? And since it seems unlikely that a person would be punished twice for essentially the same sin, I must conclude that giving voice to one’s nasty thoughts—an action with clear health benefits—is less of a sin, and bears fewer consequences, than keeping them bottled up. That said, I chose the lesser of two evils.

  “Will hedge shears be sufficient, or do you need to see a surgeon?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “To cut the apron strings, dear.”

  “I don’t need this,” my beloved said, and strode away.

  3

  The first annual Hernia Holstein Competition was Doc Shafor’s idea. He’d been a veterinarian and knew something about cows, and he’d lived long enough—Doc claims to have played
with Johnny Appleseed as a child—to see that our dear little town was on the verge of losing its identity.

  We’d always been a farming community but, more and more it seemed, we were becoming a bedroom satellite of Bedford, just twelve miles away. Young couples were discovering that it was cheaper to buy a house in Hernia than in Bedford. Also, our school system is small and the teachers are excellent. Crime in Hernia is negligible—just as long as one doesn’t count murder. (We have more than our fair share of that, but the victims are invariably adults, so it is still safe for children to play in our streets.)

  At any rate, if we Hernians wished to preserve our heritage, it was incumbent on us to refocus on agriculture and animal husbandry. Doc had been to other dairy cow competitions, and seen what a boost they were to both the morale and the economy of the host community. He suggested that we concentrate on Holsteins, since that particular breed appears to do better in our microclimate than it does in just about any other. In fact, were it not for the fact that the majority of us are humble people of Mennonite and/or Amish descent, there would be a lot of bovine bragging going on in these parts.

  Frankly, I thought a cow competition was a little “lame,” as Alison might say, but I didn’t want to hurt Doc’s feelings, so I played along. Boy, was I ever surprised by the response we received with regard to our ad in Milk Monthly, in which we depicted “Hernia as the Holstein capital of the world” and the competition as “the most coveted event of the century.” Calls came in from as far away as Japan. Even if we built a tent city on one of the local farms, and utilized every motel room in Bedford, our infrastructure would still not be able to handle the number of would-be participants, let alone the spectators.

  The only way to deal with this problem, we quickly decided, was to set an exorbitant entrance fee for each cow, as well as charge the public an arm and a leg to watch the proceedings. We also set a cut-off date for registration that eliminated all but the wealthiest and most on-the-ball Milk Monthly subscribers.

  Although I jacked up my room prices to even more obscene levels, they were invariably booked immediately. In defense of my greed, it must be said that I tithe my income, and that for the duration of the competition, my room charge included a stabling fee for cows. The latter was not something most motels in Bedford were able to offer.

  Freni’s husband, Mose, and son, Jonathan, built five partitions in my pasture and five in my barn. Four of these were for guests’ use, and one was for my two cows, Matilda Two and Prairie Queen. Both these gals—my cows, not my guests—were Holsteins as well as very productive milkers. Matilda Two was exceptionally well equipped, with teats as long and smooth as uncooked wieners, and an enormous udder—one that was wrinkle-free where it attached to her barrel and virtually void of unsightly veins. Had I not been one of the event’s organizers, I would have undoubtedly paid a king’s ransom to enter her in the contest.

  The guests were scheduled to arrive as much as a week in advance, in order to allow the cows sufficient time to recuperate from the stress of travel. Not surprisingly, the guest who had the farthest to drive was the first to show up. I could tell by the license plate that he was from North Dakota, which meant he had to be Mr. Dorfman.

  I’d been feeling lightheaded a lot the past week, so I was not totally surprised to see two Mr. Dorfmans exit the truck cab, one from either side. Of course I knew that double vision should not be taken lightly, and I fully intended to hie myself off to a doctor as soon as the competition was over and I’d taken care of my personal problem—i.e., gotten her accepted as a team member on a yearlong expedition to Antarctica. In the meantime, I had a business to run.

  “Welcome to the PennDutch Inn,” I called out, ever the mistress of false gaiety.

  “Howdy. I’m Harry Dorfman.” A beefy man with very little neck and flyaway eyebrows proffered a paw as coarse as an artichoke.

  “And I’m Harmon,” said another beefy man with very little neck and flyaway eyebrows, but whose hand felt like a pineapple.

  My sigh of relief ruffled both sets of eyebrows. “Your reservation just said ‘the Dorfmans.’ I was expecting a married couple, not identical twins. Or is one of you a clone?”

  Harry laughed. “Yeah, we’re about as identical as twins can get. Even our wives can’t tell us apart.”

  “Except for one thing,” Harmon said. “On that score we ain’t identical.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Harry has him a birthmark in the shape of Uzbekistan on his left thigh, and I ain’t married.”

  At least that is what I thought he said. However, my ears were ringing, the world seemed to be closing in on me, and I felt like throwing up. Harmon Dorfman might have said anything.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “What?”

  “You look like you’re about to pass out,” one of the twins said. I could barely see their faces, much less focus on their lips, so identifying the identical speaker was impossible.

  “You better sit down, ma’am,” the other said.

  “Don’t be silly, dears. I’m fine as frog—” I teetered. I tottered. I did everything but topple. Sure enough, a minute or two later I was feeling fine again, just not as fine as amphibian hair. I attempted a smile. “You see?”

  “Miss Yoder,” Harry said, “I’m going to call your doctor.”

  “You most certainly are not.”

  “But you’re obviously not well.”

  “Well, shmell—” Another truck towing a trailer was about to pull into my drive. “I’ll be fine. I promise. Right now I suggest that one of you run ahead and reserve the stall of your choice, and the paddock that you like best. I’m assigning them on a first-come-first-served basis.”

  The nature of competition being what it is, both men made a beeline for the barn.

  I was feeling much better by the time the next couple finally presented themselves for introduction. The Pearlmutters had obviously been having some sort of disagreement, and had remained in the cab of their truck while attempting to wrap things up. Eventually, reconciliation gave way to embarrassment, but when I shook hands with them I could smell the lingering scent of anger.

  The Pearlmutters drove an expensive new truck and their livestock trailer was top-of-the-line. Jane Pearlmutter, however, was dressed in clothes that would have been rejected by every Goodwill store in the nation—excepting one in eastern Alabama. Her stringy, dishwater blond hair was pulled back from her face and held in place by a pair of brown plastic barrettes. Her blotchy pink skin was devoid of foundation, her pale blue eyes unadorned by mascara, and her thin lips the color of boiled liver. I live amongst plain people, and am plain myself, but one has to really work to look this bad. Based on these rather generous observations, I deduced that either she was exceptionally devout and had taken vows of both poverty and homeliness, or else was so wealthy that she could afford to have no pretensions whatsoever. Then I remembered that her tall, dark, and handsome husband, Dick, was a retired stockbroker, which answered that question for me.

  “Welcome to the PennDutch,” I said warily.

  “I’m Dick,” he said. “And this is my wife, Jane. We’re here for the first annual Hernia Holstein Competition. Is this the right place?”

  “Indeed it is. I’m Magdalena Portulaca Yoder, your hostess with the mostess, except that today it’s closer to leastess due to unforeseen circumstances. But one thing I am not, is listless, so not to worry, you will have the bestest stay this side of the Poconos.”

  “Are you sure?” Jane asked.

  “Forsooth, I tell the truth. Of course, I can’t give you a written guarantee that you’ll enjoy your stay, but for only one hundred dollars more a day—”

  “No. What I mean is, are you sure that you’re Magdalena Yoder?”

  “Pretty sure. Although Papa used to joke that I was a petunia he found in the onion patch. But of course if that was true, then my parents would have named me Magdalena Petunia Yoder, and not Portulaca.”

  �
��Honey,” Jane whispered, “the brochure said she was Mennonite. This woman is anything but.”

  Dick Pearlmutter, who was dressed in expensive togs and had neatly combed hair, gave me the quick once-over. “Well, she is awfully pretty.”

  “Not only that, but she’s not dressed like that woman on the brochure.”

  Just a year ago I would have taken offense at the word pretty, believing that it had been uttered with utmost sarcasm. Then one day I ran into an old classmate of mine who’d become a plastic surgeon. To make a long story slightly shorter, I learned that for nearly half a century I’d been suffering from body dysmorphic syndrome. The ugly duckling I’d thought I was, had long since turned into a gorgeous swan—minus the feathers, of course. And the beak. And at least one of the webbed feet.

  I cocked my head, which really does reside at the end of a long, graceful neck. “The woman in the brochure is Amish. She’s my cook, Freni. And indeed, dears, I am a Mennonite, born and bred. Well, not bred like a dairy cow—I certainly haven’t produced any calves—but you know what I mean.”

  Plain Jane had the chutzpah to circle me, like I was a statue in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. “Where’s your costume?” she demanded.

  “My costume? Halloween is still many months away. But if by costume you mean clothing that identifies me as a Mennonite, take another gander. Observe that my broadcloth dress extends below my knees and that it has sleeves which are long enough to hide unsightly underarm flab—not that I have any, mind you. A quick glance should confirm that my bosom—as fair as any fawn King Solomon ever laid eyes on—is appropriately covered. Then gaze longingly at my lovely size eleven feet, and see that they are sensibly shod in sturdy black brogans, which were machine-made from second-rate leather somewhere on the subcontinent. Now lift up your heads, O ye gates—I mean, O ye Pearlmutters—and appreciate the work that went into my two braids, which wrap around the back of my head like a pair of coiled garter snakes, although perhaps my white organza prayer cap obscures them somewhat. That said, I must impress on you that only a small number of Mennonites still dress the way I do. The vast majority dress like everyone else. Capiche?”