Tamar Myers

by As the World Churns (lit)

  One might think that his feelings for me would result in a price break at his store, but then one would be wrong. As a result, shoddy merchandise aside, I almost never shop at Yoder’s Corner Market, but I do stop by regularly to get the scuttlebutt on the latest Hernia happenings. As mayor of this little burg, I see that as my duty.

  The market’s front door has a string of sleigh bells attached to it. “Well, well,” Sam called out, in a voice so nasal one would have thought he was a native of Manhattan, “if it isn’t the blushing bride.”

  “Good morning, Sam.”

  “Honestly, Magdalena, you’re positively glowing. I haven’t seen a face that radiant since my Dorothy was a girl.”

  “She had oily skin, dear-but it cleared up nicely, don’t you think?”

  “Everywhere but on her back. So, what can I do you out of?”

  “Not my money, that’s for sure. Sam, I suppose you heard about Doc.”

  “Agnes Mishler called last night. Around ten, I think it was. If I get my hands around the son of a-”

  His last word was muffled by the gasps of several Amish women who were shopping among the stacks. Just how they knew to anticipate it is beyond me. As for moi, I married a man from the Fallen Apple. Enough said.

  I moved closer to my cousin, but not within kissing range. “What about your customers? Anything you’ve heard so far this morning that might raise a red flag?”

  “You know I don’t gossip about my customers.”

  The Amish women murmured their appreciation.

  “If your lips were any looser,” I said, “the next time you sneezed, they’d fly right off your face.”

  Not only did he take that as a compliment, but he had the nerve to grin. “Well, Connie Betz said she hoped Doc had a long recovery.”

  “That way she can visit him in the hospital, and her husband won’t be any wiser.”

  He looked crestfallen. “Is that so? How did you know they were an item?”

  “They’re not an item, Sam. Connie keeps pursuing Doc, but he isn’t the least bit interested in her. Doc may be a Lothario, but he does set certain standards; married women is one of the places he draws the line.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nah. You know as well as I do that Doc is everyone’s favorite old geezer. Almost makes me wish I was his age.”

  “Trust me, dear, it isn’t just Doc’s age that makes him attractive to women.”

  “Ouch, that hurt.”

  “I’m referring to his cooking. Just because food is the way to a man’s heart, doesn’t mean women can’t be seduced by it as well. Besides, not only can Doc cook, but he knows how to make a woman feel waited on hand and foot.”

  “Magdalena, are you smitten by him?”

  “What? No! I am happily married-and glowing. You said so yourself.”

  Sam had the temerity to look relieved. Apparently, the Babester didn’t count as competition, given that he was an outsider, and as such wasn’t likely to stick around.

  “Yup,” he said, “you’re glowing like a jack-o’-lantern with two candles inside.”

  “Thanks-I think. Sam, you wouldn’t happen to know of anyone who’d be qualified to judge the Holstein competition on a minute’s notice, would you?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Who?”

  “You’re looking at his handsome mug.”

  “You?”

  “Do you forget, oh my fair one, that I was raised on a dairy farm, just like you were? In fact, my pops was in charge of the breeding book for the tri-counties. He had me milking by the time I was four-and not with machines either. No sirree, Bob, my little hands were squeezing teats before they’d even picked up a pencil.”

  That certainly explained a great deal; no wonder Dorothy Yoder walked around with a pained expression on her face. I shook my head vigorously to clear it of some very unpleasant images.

  “But I did,” Sam insisted.

  “The judges don’t get paid, you know.”

  “Magdalena, what must you think of me? I wouldn’t be doing it for the money. Even a lowlife like me can want to give back to the community.”

  “I’ve never called you a lowlife!”

  “Then maybe it’s because you have your hair pulled back in that severe bun that I can read your mind.”

  “Who knew it was in large print? But seriously, Sam, who will watch the store?”

  “I’ll get Dorothy. She can bring chocolate-covered bonbons with her. I’ll drag in the couch from the back room and set up a little color TV here by the register. She won’t even notice the difference.”

  “I need you tomorrow morning. Can you rent a forklift truck that soon?” In the twenty years she’s been married, Dorothy, bless her dear Methodist heart, has eaten her way from a size six to a special-made size sixty. Sam has had to install double doors throughout his house, but getting his wife from the house to another location always presents a challenge.

  “I’ll manage. If I have to, since it’s downhill all the way, I’ll wrap her in bubble wrap and roll her.”

  “Sam, that’s awful-still, it did work for the Taste of Hernia Festival last summer. And if I recall correctly, it was her idea.”

  “Yup, the only bad part was that she had to wait two weeks before I could roll her back up. So, see you tomorrow?”

  “Nine o’clock sharp. And bring your glasses.”

  I waited patiently for two tourist-driven cars and the Gindlespergers’ buggy to pass before hoofing it over to pay my regards to young Chris.

  13

  The Hernia police station is directly across the street from Sam’s. While standing in the doorway of the grocery, one could literally throw a stale roll and hit a police officer as he, or she, exits the building. I’m not advocating such behavior, mind you, but recalling those good times are the only decent memories I have of Melvin Stoltzfus, our erstwhile chief. Although the police station was my next order of business, the Devil had other plans for me.

  Adjacent to Sam Yoder’s Corner Market is Hernia’s only public phone booth. For all the difference it would make, there may as well be a sign out front restricting its use to Amish only. We Mennonites have cell phones, but the Amish don’t even have landlines in their houses. For so-called “matters of importance,” they wait patiently in a queue for the opportunity to call other phone booths in distant Amish communities. To my knowledge, I, Magdalena Portulaca Yoder, am the only non-Amish person to have used the phone in the last ten years. But like I said, the Devil had my number now.

  Of course, it wasn’t all my fault; although the Amish are long-suffering, I could see that Rebecca Bumgardner had used more than her fair share of minutes, as well as goodwill. This was evident in the body language of the others waiting in line, some of whom were asleep on their feet. When I saw Rebecca hang up and dial again, that’s when I listened to Lucifer. After five minutes or so, just as the loquacious Miss Bumgardner was fishing in her apron pocket for another phone number, I hit the speed dial on my cell. Since calls frequently come in to that phone, Rebecca answered as a matter of course.

  “Hello?”

  “Gut marriye,” I said in Dutch. I spoke as low as I could.

  “Yah, gut marriye.”

  Having all but exhausted my Amish vocabulary, I switched to King James English. “Rebecca Bumgardner, dost thou not know that selfishness is a sin?”

  Rebecca’s first reaction was to look skyward. A solitary cloud was drifting slowly overhead. In a theology where Heaven is “up,” this phenomenon added a great deal to the atmosphere.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “I am who I am.”

  “Ach!” The poor child-she is only fourteen, after all-nearly dropped the receiver. “Are you He?”

  “Do I sound like a he?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Rats-I mean wrath. My wrath shall be visited upon teenage girls who hog the phone.”

  The girl was more intelligent
than I’d anticipated. This time she glanced around.

  “Ach, it is only you, Magdalena Yoder.”

  “Nonetheless, you need to relinquish the phone so others can use it.”

  “What does relinquish mean?”

  “It means give it up. You’ve yammered on long enough, dear.”

  It was soon quite apparent that Rebecca was not an Amish teenager, but a teenager who happened to be Amish. “I can talk to my friends if I want to, Miss Yoder. You are not my mama.”

  “No, but I am the town mayor. This phone belongs to the municipality, and I am hereby ordering you to hang up immediately, or I will embarrass you in front of this group by placing you under citizen’s arrest.” Okay, so maybe I was going a little bit overboard, but better safe than sorry, right? Besides, I was such a goody two-shoes growing up that a threat like that would have had me shaking in my brogans. Surely, Miss Bumgardner would crumple like a starched bonnet left out in the rain.

  “Yah? Do you think I care, Magdalena Yoder? I will tell them that you pretended to be God. Ha, so there.”

  “But I didn’t! I was only pretending to be a heavenly hostess. You drew your own conclusions.”

  “Then I will tell them that you hired those inalienable legals to take care of your cows.”

  “The who?”

  “Mexicans,” she hissed.

  “But I didn’t!”

  “Again with the lies, Miss Yoder. My brother, Amos, had to go into Bedford this morning to deliver eggs to the IGA. I rode with him in the family buggy as far as here. When we passed your place, we saw two of these Mexicans leave your barn and head for the woods.”

  “What? When?”

  “Just after milking time.”

  “And you’ve been blabbing on the phone ever since then?”

  “It’s my rumschpringe-if you must know.” She was referring to the community-sanctioned period of rebellion every Amish young person is entitled to before baptism at age twenty, when they must choose whether to put away the world for good.

  “You’re sixteen already?”

  “Ach, no. I am seventeen next week.”

  Although I do not watch television, I do listen to the radio upon occasion, therefore-oh, whom am I kidding? I confess! Gabriel talked me into going with him and Ida to see a theatrical production in Pittsburgh last month. Fiddler on the Roof. Frankly, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of traditions his people and my people have in common. In addition, some of the tunes were quite catchy.

  “Sunrise,” I began to sing, in my not too unpleasant voice. I began softly at first, building to a crescendo by the time I got to the word “years.” One by one, the good folks in the queue awoke, and by the time I had finished this astonishingly moving ballad, I had everyone’s attention-even that of three stray dogs. Sam, however, was the only one who clapped.

  “Brava,” he yelled from the doorway of his shop. “Brava!”

  Rebecca Bumgardner, who had turned a frightening shade of fuchsia, was definitely not amused. “I am not your little girl, Miss Yoder; you did not carry me!”

  “All the same, dear, tempus fugit.”

  Having jumped to the wrong conclusion, more than one person gasped. It goes to show you how much the outside world, with its obscene speech, has already rubbed off on these gentle people. I didst protest my innocence, and whilst doing so, Rebecca took off running. I cast my reputation asunder and took off after her, but, alas, I could not overtake the fair maiden. By the time I showed up at Chief Ackerman’s office door, I was panting like a two-headed bride on her wedding night.

  Chris was on the phone when I walked in, just saying good-bye.

  He stood and smiled.

  “Not a bad parody, Miss Yoder.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your singing. The way you hammed it up, pretending to be a female impersonator.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “That was supposed to be a serious rendition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oops. Of course I was listening with only one ear, seeing as how I was on the phone, and these windows seem to have exceptionally thick glass that distorts sound.”

  “Harrumph. I’ll have you know that others have said-well, never you mind. And please, I’ve told you a million times to call me Magdalena.”

  “Magdalena, that was the hospital on the phone. Doc opened his eyes this morning. It was just for a second, but still, that’s supposed to be an excellent sign. The nurse said that the next seventy-two hours are critical. But if Doc does wake up, there is a chance he could make a full recovery.”

  “Praise God and pass the mashed potatoes!”

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, just something Alison says when I ask her to recite grace. It was the first thing that popped into my mind.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m really glad about Doc too. So, have you come up with any leads so far?”

  I told young Chris about the supposed clone and Rebecca’s sighting of illegal aliens. He dismissed the former out of hand.

  “Are there any Hispanics in Hernia? If so, no one’s ever mentioned them.”

  “Alice Beckerman’s father was born in Paraguay. But his parents were Amish emigrants from Pennsylvania. I don’t think that counts. You see, Chris, folks in our community are still willing to do menial labor. When the Amish need to put up a barn, the entire community pitches in-sometimes even non-Amish get in-volved-and the barn is built in literally one day.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “You’re darn tooting-oops, I didn’t mean to swear. I sort of got carried away with pride-oops, that’s an even bigger sin. Before these lips sink my shapely ship-oops! Spit it out, man-why are you asking about Hispanics?”

  Young Chris smiled. “Miss Yoder, have you ever been in therapy?”

  “I was shrunk once by a visiting shrink, but I’m not so sure it took. But again with the questions. You’re not planning to convert to Judaism, are you? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that-especially in your case, given that you’re doomed to Hell anyway. Of course, that’s not me talking, but the Bible.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Get back to the Hispanics.”

  “It’s just that several people have called in, reporting two brown-skinned men crossing their fields, or loitering about at the edge of their woods. No one has seen them close up, so they can’t get any more specific than that.”

  Then a candle was lit in my feeble little brain. “They’re Gertie Fuselburger’s hired hands. She promised to look after them. Implied they weren’t lacking for a place to stay. But I have a hunch they slept in my barn last night.”

  “And you’re okay with this?”

  “I most certainly am not! You can be sure Miss Fuselburger is going to pay extra for the privilege of bunking her help in the most exclusive accommodations this side of the Wyoming state line.”

  “Forgive me, Miss Yoder, but do you honestly consider sleeping on hay to be an exclusive experience?”

  “They’ll each get two burlap bags, which they can keep, and a large coffee can-the six-seater outhouse I have now is just for show. Plus, the ambiance of sleeping in a replica of an authentic Amish barn. What other inn that you know of offers such perks?”

  He smiled again. “You’ve got me there. But I would think that allowing Miss Fuselburger’s employees access to the cows all night could lead to some interesting problems.”

  Just because my police chief has a very attractive head does not mean it’s empty. “Oh? What sort of problems?”

  14

  “Well, for starters, they could poison the cows.”

  “You mean like with jimson weed?”

  “Yeah, or anything. And it doesn’t even have to be lethal- heck, it doesn’t even have to be anything at all. What I’m saying is that if the other contestants find out about this-about letting those men sleep in the barn near their cows-they could demand the cows all be tested. That means that the compet
ition could be delayed.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Miss Yoder, please don’t say that.”

  “Are you superstitious?”

  “Is the pope German?”