As the World Churns

by Tamar Myers

  “Wanda, will you take her in or not?”

  “Of course, you idiot.” She grabbed Old Blue’s leash and disappeared in the kitchen with her.

  While I waited for her imminent return, I seated myself at my favorite table and scanned a grease-coated menu. Not a thing on it had changed in the last twenty years—except for the prices. One day, perhaps very soon, trans fats would be banned in Bedford County. When that time came, old-timers in the business, like Wanda and me, were going to have a very hard time adjusting. Oh, my goodness! That was the one thing that she and I had in common.

  “Are you going to order, Magdalena, or just drool on my menu?”

  I snapped back to the present. “You’re here.”

  “What an odd thing to say.” Wanda, who serves as both hostess and waitress, tapped her order pad with a stubby pencil. “So, what will it be?”

  “The usual.”

  She nodded. “A small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice; two eggs over medium; four strips of bacon, not too crisp; two slices of lightly toasted whole wheat bread; real butter; grape jelly; and coffee with lots of half and half. Anything else?”

  “Gossip.”

  She slid into the booth and sat across from me. “Well, did you hear about the sixteen-pound tumor they removed from Daniel Berkley’s cheek over in Somerset? Turns out it wasn’t a tumor at all, but a perfectly formed second head. Of course it was hidden under a layer of skin, so you really can’t blame the doctors. They say that when the skin was removed and the face revealed, that head began to talk. Marla Kuhnberger says you can’t read about it in the papers because the government wants to keep it top secret. They’ve already whisked it off to Washington in a Black Hawk helicopter. What do you suppose will happen to it there?”

  “Beats me—although I imagine it could have a fine career as a political pundit. Talking heads are in great demand. And they wouldn’t have to pay it very much, would they? I mean, it could live in a very small apartment—maybe a renovated birdhouse. It certainly wouldn’t need a clothing allowance. Well, except maybe for hats.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “Nay, just having a bit of fun. After all, Wanda, you are known for being a good sport.”

  “I am?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “Come to think of it, I am.”

  “There you go, then.” I smiled pleasantly, despite the effort. “Wanda, dear, have you heard any gossip about Doc?”

  “Are you kidding? Geraldine Yutzy thinks that Doc’s attacker is none other than the Antichrist. She’s planning to move her brood back to Lancaster, where she thinks there are fewer heathens. Meanwhile, Erma Dietweiler is convinced that it’s Bigfoot.”

  “Oh, not again,” I wailed. You’d wail too if the National Exposer had printed a special issue on you, naming you as Bigfoot only because your feet were—well, rather big.

  “Yes, but that’s not all: Jonathan Lehman is convinced that Doc’s possessed by an evil spirit and beat his own self up. He’s trying to convince a Reverend Haggleworth to come up here from Cumberland, Maryland, to exercise Doc. Apparently this guy not only does exercisms, but he’s able to catch the demon as it exits the body and seals it inside a specially lined glass bottle suitable to place on your mantel.”

  “Trust me. Doc’s not up to exercise just yet. Exorcism either. Anything that might be credible?”

  Wanda scowled. “Honestly, Magdalena, you have no imagination. Think of the money that we could make, if we did the exorcism ourselves—well, you at any rate. I mean, you’re pretty scary, right? And I could sell the bottles right here in my gift corner. Heck, we could even advertise our product in TV Guide. You know, five easy payments of $19.95. Or maybe an infomercial would be the way to go: ‘Act now, and you get your choice of designer bottles in the color of your choosing, plus a two-ounce container of Holy Talcum Powder that’s guaranteed to keep demons away from you and your loved ones if used on a daily basis.’ For refills, of course, we’d charge a mint.”

  Who knew that Wanda and I had so much in common? Under different circumstances, and if we were different people, we might have been able to be business partners—although scamming the public with a devilish scheme like that would be like playing with fire. Much better to charge them an arm and a leg for something real, no matter how paltry it might be—like little bags of barn hay tied up with fancy ribbons and labeled with cute sayings like “Hay there, miss you” or “I took a straw poll and—”

  “Magdalena, have you fallen asleep? Don’t tell me you’re drunk again.”

  I shook my way out of a lucrative daydream. “Rumors of my drinking have been highly exaggerated. Anyhow, the gossip you’ve related so far, as stimulating as it is, will not help me find Doc’s assailant. Don’t you have anything else?”

  Wanda sighed. “Well, there was something that Mary Anne Gingerich said—something about Doc. But I’d hardly call it newsworthy.”

  “Gossip never is. Now spit it out, dear.”

  22

  “You’re so pushy, Magdalena, you know that? Anyway, when Mary Anne got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, she noticed a light on in Doc’s house. But then it was off by the time she went back to bed.”

  The Gingeriches are Doc’s nearest neighbors. Doc has often complained about how nosy Mary Anne is. Once he caught her going through his garbage.

  “The light was probably on a timer,” I said.

  “That’s what Mary Anne thought too, but an hour later when she had to go again, it was back on.”

  “That explains it!”

  “Explains what? That Doc had a woman staying over? Magdalena, I hate to have to be the one to break it to you, but that ship has long sailed.”

  I feigned shock by clapping my cheeks with my hands. “It has?”

  “Honestly, you’d think an experienced adulteress like you would be a bit savvier about the ways of the world.”

  “I was an inadvertent adulteress—unlike some people in this room.”

  Wanda leapt to her feet, nearly taking the booth with her. “How dare you heap accusations at my feet? I only cheated on him once, I’ll have you know—twice, if you count that time when we were separated. That hardly makes me a real adulteress.”

  “Hmm. That all depends; have you applied for your AARP card?”

  “I’m not that old, you doofus.”

  “The Adulterers’ Association of Rural Pennsylvania has no age restrictions, dear. Although the dues are said to be quite steep.”

  “Are you making fun of me again?”

  “Absolutely.” I stood as well.

  “If you leave now, you’ll still have to pay for your food.”

  “You haven’t even taken my order back to the kitchen.”

  “Get out of my restaurant!”

  “Certainly, dear.”

  I was still hungry, of course, but I knew that Freni had already served my guests lunch. While technically it is my kitchen, in reality it is the sovereign domain of a stout, stubborn Amish woman in her mid-seventies. I would rather scavenge for bones in a lion’s den than raid my own refrigerator for leftovers after my cook has “put the kitchen up.” Fortunately, not only did Hernia’s fifth greatest cook (I sell the complete list for two dollars) live only a stone’s throw from the Sausage Barn, he was always eager for visitors.

  Reverend Richard Nixon is pastor of the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah. He was also one of my judges for the Holstein competition the next day. By dropping in on him, I could kill two birds with one stone.

  The parsonage of this miniscule congregation is a single-wide trailer that sits adjacent to the windowless concrete block building that serves as a sanctuary. Originally, a set of wooden steps allowed one easy access to the trailer door, but they’ve rotted over the years, and have yet to be replaced. My guess is that the church
with thirty-two words in its name is too poor to maintain its property. Whatever the reason, the lack of steps doesn’t negatively impact Reverend Nixon, because he has the longest legs I’ve ever seen outside of a zoo.

  Usually the reverend is quick to pop out of his cramped quarters, whereupon he greets his visitors with a warm smile. However, since I’d eschewed the gravel parking lot in favor of a grass sward, it is possible my approach had gone unnoticed.

  “Yoo-hoo,” I hollered through cupped hands.

  Still receiving no response, I strode to the door, and rapped on it with knuckles that are the envy of woodpeckers. Finally, after damage was beginning to show (on the metal door, not my hands), the good reverend appeared.

  “Magdalena, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “No offense,” I said sweetly, “but are you losing your hearing?”

  “Not at all. I have the TV on.”

  “In the daytime?”

  “I’m also eating lunch. Would you care to join me?”

  “What are you having?”

  “Stew. And then deep-dish apple pie for dessert.”

  “Well…” I hung my head coyly.

  “Home-churned ice cream comes with the pie.”

  “All right, if you insist. But you’ll have to help me up. I’m five feet ten, but I’m no giantess—oops, sorry about that.”

  “No offense taken. I rather like being this tall; I can sit anywhere I want in a movie theater, and no one is in my way. The only drawback is that I can’t stand in this trailer. I thought of tearing off the roof and building a sort of skylight down the middle—I’d do it myself, of course—but skylights are notorious for leaking, and then in the summer I’d have to worry about overheating this place. So instead, I’m looking into the feasibility of dropping the floor about a foot. Maybe even adding a basement.”

  My mouth fell open. Fortunately, it was still too early for flies.

  “You watch movies? Isn’t that a sin?”

  He offered me his hand, which was slightly larger than the state of Rhode Island. “We’ll talk about it at lunch. In the meantime, here, let me help you up.”

  I graciously accepted, and soon was seated across from him in a galley that was far smaller than the state of Rhode Island. But since he’d turned off the Devil’s Chatterbox and had set a steaming bowl of delicious stew in front of me, it didn’t seem right for me to complain that my own knees were practically on either side of my face, a position I hadn’t assumed since…

  “—of course, that’s it in a nutshell. Feel free to ask questions, if you have any.”

  “Huh? What did you say?”

  “How charming, Magdalena,” he said, entirely without sarcasm. “How utterly like you: always off in your own little world. At any rate, I said something about it boiling down to moral selectivity.”

  “You’re darn tootin’.” I swallowed my pride along with a spoonful of delicious stew gravy. “By the way, what does that mean?”

  “It means that I, along with everyone else in this world—with possibly a few unnotable exceptions—pick and choose our moral laundry list.”

  “Yes, of course, but can you give me an example?”

  “Take divorce, for instance. It used to be the big no-no. But when the so-called Moral Majority lined up to vote a divorced man into office—that would be Ronald Reagan—they had to pick a new cause. Enter abortion as the cause du jour. That took them through the eighties and half the nineties. However, nothing has got them so worked up and spewing hate in the name of God as homosexuality. The ironic thing is that Jesus came down hard on divorce, but he had nothing at all to say about abortion or gay rights.”

  “To be fair, there are a lot of other sins Jesus didn’t mention by name.”

  “Do you think loving someone is a sin?”

  “This isn’t about me!”

  “Yes, it is. It’s all about all of us. Tell me, Magdalena, which sin do you choose to ignore? Perhaps even to justify?”

  “Moi? Uh—nothing comes to mind.”

  “Be honest.”

  “Okay, I give up. Pull out the bamboo slivers. Lighten up on the thumbscrews. I suppose that it is possible that at times I am creative with the truth.”

  “You’re a liar. Come on, say it.”

  “I most certainly will not!”

  He fixed his doleful brown eyes on me, no doubt trying to guilt me into a full-blown confession. I, however, stood my ground. And it wasn’t even that hard. All I had to do was pretend that he was Mama, and that she had just whipped me for stealing the last piece of her rhubarb pie. I hadn’t stolen it, of course, because I hated her rhubarb pie. It was so bitter, it literally killed half your taste buds before you could gag it down. Since both Papa and Susannah vehemently denied eating the vile stuff, I could only conclude that the missing piece had managed to make its way over to the sink, where it voluntarily committed suicide by jumping into the garbage disposal.

  “Wow,” the reverend finally said, “you’re a tough nut to crack.”

  “Indisputably so. Now tell me about your movie addiction.”

  “It’s not an addiction; it’s merely a sinful pleasure. I go every Saturday if I’m free. I call it my little excursion into Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  I gasped. “You go all the way to Maryland?”

  “Don’t worry, I take provisions. But I don’t want to be a stumbling block to my congregation, so I have to go someplace they aren’t likely to see me.”

  My head reeled. “Let me get this straight. You choose your big sin, and then, as they say in this day and age, you ‘own’ it?”

  “Exactly. Imagine what a nicer world it would be if all the closeted homosexuals in this country stopped persecuting other gays from their pulpits or pews, and owned up to who they are.”

  “Hmm.”

  He fixed his doleful gaze on me again.

  “Stop it—dear! I’m not a liar, merely an embroiderer of the truth. Rather skillful embroidering, if I do say so myself.” I stood and stretched, and in the process whacked my hands against the metal ceiling.

  “Huafa mischt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. My mother was Amish, as you may recall. I know the socially acceptable way to say horse manure in this community. If you can’t just flat-out admit that you’re a world-class liar—well then, Magdalena, I’ve lost all respect for you.”

  I thought carefully before responding. I even cast a prayer heavenward. That it bounced off the metal roof of the reverend’s tiny trailer wasn’t my fault.

  “If I refuse, will you still be a judge tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I’m not being punitive; I just want you to stop kidding yourself.”

  Knowing that my prayers for a charitable tongue would be futile, I skipped them and dove right in. “Why, Reverend Nixon, you’re a first-class hypocrite, despite all this liberal posturing about self-knowledge. Your congregation is the most conservative in the county, Amish or otherwise. I’ve heard that you thump your Bibles so hard you wear them out on an annual basis, and, according to the hospital statistics, at least once a month someone in your church is hurt by all the jumping up and down in the pews you folks engage in. If they knew you were sneaking off into Maryland to watch movies, they’d toss you out like last year’s devotional guide.”

  The good reverend is one of those men whose virility is immediately made apparent by an enormous, angular Adam’s apple. When he swallows, or becomes agitated, it bobs up and down like a fishing cork on Miller’s Pond. At the moment, judging by the vigorous activity taking place in his throat, one might guess Richard Nixon had caught a large-mouth bass.

  “Please leave now,” he said in a tone as flat as central Kansas. Perhaps I’d gone too far.

  “Certainly, but you’ll still judge, right?”

  “Actually, I’ve just changed my mind; I will not be judging. In fact, I’m not even coming. Far be it for me to sully this august event with my wicked, hypocritical ways. Besides, I have yet
to wear out last year’s Bible, let alone get started on this year’s, so I’ve got a lot of thumping to do.”

  “But who will I get to take your place on such short notice?”

  “Frankly, Magdalena, I don’t give a—”

  If Reverend Nixon finished his sentence with a swear word, I didn’t hear it. I was too busy fainting. Fortunately for me, the pastor of the church with thirty-two words in its name made good use of those long arms and caught me before my head hit the floor.

  23

  Imagine my surprise when I woke to discover that I was in Hell, and I mean that literally. After all, I’d given my life over to the Lord, and was a true believer, and, although it’s faith that’s important, not good works, I’d even acted charitably at times. If anyone deserved to go to Heaven, it was me—not that any of us are truly deserving of such a wonderful place, but you know what I mean. I certainly didn’t think I was bound for Hell, just because I stretched the truth on the odd occasion.

  For some reason, I was lying on my back. Leering down at me was the Devil who, although not wearing Prada, was unmistakably female. Her voice soon confirmed that.

  “Do you know who I am, Magdalena?”

  “Beelzebub. Or would you prefer Your Devilship? But Sataness is just too sibilant, if you ask me. Look, a terrible mistake has been made: I’ve been sent to the wrong place.”

  “Oh?”

  “No doubt about it. I should be up there”—I pointed to the ceiling—“choosing my mansion. How many styles do we get to pick from? Oops, I guess you wouldn’t know.”

  “It’s me, Nurse Dudley.”

  “What?”

  “Focus, Magdalena. How many fingers do you see?”

  “Hey, that’s not nice! Just because I’m a simple Mennonite woman, you don’t think I know what that means. But you’re right, you do sort of look like Nurse Ratched, although frankly—and I mean this as a compliment, you’re somewhat prettier.”

  “Shut up, you idiot! I really am Nurse Ratched—Darn, you see what you made me do? Well, I told you I was going to get you, Magdalena; I just didn’t expect the moment to come so quick. But now that you’re lying in a hospital bed, and I’m the nurse on duty…” She rubbed her hands together and cackled.