Tamar Myers

by As the World Churns (lit)

  “No way!”

  “You better believe it. We’re going to be the laughingstock of the country.”

  “I suppose one must gather one’s accolades whatever they may be.”

  “You’re crazy, Magdalena. Now apologize.”

  “Share your tidbit first.”

  “Like heck.”

  “I bet it’s really juicy.” I made slurping noises. It was disgusting and childish of me, and I should be thoroughly ashamed. No Mennonite woman in her right mind would even think of doing such a thing; but since I was ipso facto nutso, it was totally in keeping with my character.

  What mattered is that my comment primed Lyudmila’s pump-so to speak. She let her gaze wander around the room, as if making eye contact with others who had convened to hear her spiel.

  “He kept glancing at his watch, and then at one of the contes-tants-well, not one of the cows, but you know what I mean.”

  “Which contestant?”

  29

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you just said-”

  “Really, Magdalena, use that oversized head of yours. They were all standing in a bunch, in a roped-off area. I guess that was so they wouldn’t interfere with the judging. Anyway, there must have been at least fifty of them. How could I tell which one he was flirting with? But I guess you can’t blame him, can you? I mean, a handsome doctor married to an older woman; it would be only natural for him to have second thoughts.”

  “Sixty-two.”

  “Yet we were in the same grade! You must have flunked more years than I thought.”

  “Sixty-two contestants, dear. And not that it’s any of your business, but I’m forty-eight and holding, which, I believe, makes me a year younger than you. My husband, by the way, is six weeks older than I.”

  “Harrumph.”

  “If you couldn’t tell which woman he was flirting with, how do you even know it was a woman?”

  “I smelled her perfume.”

  “What? You’re not making sense, dear-even for you.”

  “For your information, Miss Smarty-Pants, I made a point of saying hello to him, just before he started acting crazy. After all, if he decides to divorce you, there’s no point in letting all that manly goodness go to waste.”

  “So you’re that woman?”

  “Honestly, Magdalena, I don’t know what possessed me to try to copy off your history exam. I smelled the other woman on him. That’s how I knew.”

  I prayed for a Christian tongue while I thought this over. Gabe is fastidious about his grooming, and showers every morning. Therefore, it certainly wasn’t me she’d smelled. And since I trust the Babester with my life, I trust his fidelity as well.

  “All the cows are women. It was probably just Eau de Holstein you got a whiff of. It’s supposed to be all the rage down on the farm.”

  “I know what cows smell like, Magdalena. This was Shalimar.”

  “Is she a friend of Dr. Rashid? Because any friend of Faya’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Shalimar is the name of a perfume, you ignoramus.”

  “No need to be rude, dear.” Since she hadn’t asked me to sit, I didn’t have to haul my patooty out of a chair before making a beeline for the door. Before turning the knob, I turned and looked her right in her bloodshot eyes, but when I opened my mouth to spit out a pithy zinger, none was forthcoming. Zilch. Nothing. Nada. “Oh Lord,” I moaned, “why did you have to answer my prayers now?”

  Lyudmila Prendergast beamed happily. “The rumors are true, Magdalena; not only have you lost your mind, but you’ve completely lost your edge.”

  Words more hurtful than that have seldom been spoken to me. One must understand, then, why my face might have been damp when I returned to my car.

  “So now this one cries,” my mother-in-law said, as if I wasn’t even present.

  Agnes, who’d been forced to sit in the backseat, set her considerable bulk into motion by leaning forward and patting the back of my shoulder. Although she meant well, I felt as if I were a piece of origami, and she was-well, King Kong. Not that I watch films about giant apes, mind you, since such things can’t possibly exist. After all, Noah took at least a pair of every sort of creature into the ark, and from the movie posters I’ve seen of this ape, just one of its kind would have sunk that wooden tub.

  As long as I’m on that subject-the ark, that is-I may as well let it all hang out, as my sister, Susannah, used to say. So here goes: Noah’s boat was big, but was it large enough to accommodate the five million species of insects that still exist in the world today? How about the ten thousand different kinds of birds? And even though there are only four thousand different mammal species, a lot of them are quite large.

  For instance, there are two kinds of elephants, the African and the Indian. It simply does not suffice to say that Noah took just one species of elephant into the ark, and that the other species evolved from it after the flood, since we know that evolution doesn’t exist. Besides, the two elephant species are so different that they belong to different genera, and with one notable exception in 1978, cannot interbreed. Now throw in mastodons (said to be the ancestors of elephants) and mammoths, of which there are numerous skeletons to be seen in museums, add one full-grown brontosaurus, and the ark would have sunk.

  I know about these things-and I am ashamed to say it-be-cause I check books out of the Bedford County Library that would not be approved of by my fellow church elders. I can’t seem to help it. If I am to sign off on a particular way of thinking, I need to at least familiarize myself with the other side’s point of view. This makes me a fence-sitter on many issues, and believe you me, the tops of most fences are not comfy places to sit-especially if they’re picket fences.

  One might legitimately ask why I just don’t pick a side, jump off, and get on with my life. The answer is: I’m a coward. I find it easier to agonize amongst the familiar symbols and rhythms of everyday life in Hernia, than to have to make a choice. Whether I stayed in the conservative Mennonite vein or left, I’d be giving up an important part of myself. Paradoxically, as long as I remain perched atop an eight-foot fence, I remain a whole woman.

  Is it any wonder, then, why my poor brain is so befuddled that at times I seem a mite disconnected? But as for the tears that streaked my face-well, there was no good explanation. I’d been on the verge of crying for the last two weeks. So far, Freni had been the only one to notice it. Now, when I arrived at the inn accompanied by Mutt and Jeff, she found a way to discreetly dry my face with a corner of her apron.

  “There was a telephone call for you,” she whispered. “They said you should call back.”

  “Who?”

  “Barbara Westheimer.”

  “Oops, did our dear, sweet Alison get in trouble?”

  “I did not ask; the call was for you.”

  The master suite is downstairs, behind the parlor. To get to it, I had to go through the dining room. Even so, I was on my private landline in a matter of seconds. Just how Freni prevented the twin shadows from following remains a mystery, but I like to think that she did her famous rendition of a turkey on Thanksgiving Wednesday. Whatever it was, I finally had a moment of privacy.

  “Uh-hello?” Barbara Westheimer sounds surprised every time she successfully answers the telephone in her home. This con-venience-an absolute necessity if you ask me-is one of the modern compromises her family has chosen to make. Although they’ve used the community phone their entire lives, the Westheimers (or so Alison says) stare at the ringing device in their kitchen as if it were a bomb about to go off.

  “Be careful, Barb. If you let it ring more than four times, the Devil listens in on this special gizmo, and records everything you say.”

  “Ach!” She either dropped the phone, or hung up. Whatever the case may be, the second time around, she picked up after the first ring. “Is this Magdalena?”

  “As big as life and twice as ugly, although I’ve been told that I’m not so hideous after all, and that I’ve b
een suffering from body dysmorphic syndrome all these years, but even if I am as ravishing as my husband says, my cheery, though somewhat enigmatic response, would still not be appropriate, given that you can’t see me, hence I do not appear as big as anything.”

  “This must be Magdalena Yoder, young Alison’s mother.”

  “Right as rain-another quite senseless rejoinder, since whether or not rain is right or wrong is a purely subjective observation.”

  “May I please hang up, Magdalena? I am afraid that you are giving me a headache.”

  “Sorry, dear. I’ll get to the point. May Alison stay with you a couple more days? She can continue to ride the bus with Mary Ruth, and I insist on chipping in for groceries.”

  During the silence that ensued, my hair grew an inch. “Uh,” Barbara finally said, “are you still there, Magdalena?”

  “Yes, dear, and now it’s your turn to speak. May she stay over?”

  “But she is not here.”

  “Gone out to the barn, have they? I’m not saying I approve of it, mind you, but girls will be girls. Frankly, there’s no stopping them once they start. I was addicted to it once, you know. It’s all I could think about for months on end.”

  “Ach!”

  “Oh, yes. But then Mama made me crochet booties for our neighbors’ baby girl, and that took all the fun out of it. I went from loving to crochet, to the point where just looking at a skein of yarn made me sick to my stomach.”

  “Alison is not in our barn, Magdalena, because she did not come to stay for the weekend.”

  “You’re mistaken, dear.”

  “I am afraid that it is you who are mistaken.”

  “But I happen to know that she is there, and since we both can’t be right-well, just do me a favor and count your children.”

  “Magdalena, if you continue in this foolishness, then I ask your permission to hang up the telephone.”

  Then it hit me with the force of a runaway train. I felt my knees grow weak.

  30

  Honey Ice Cream Recipe

  Ingredients:

  5 egg yolks

  1/2 cup honey

  1 pint (500 ml) milk

  1/2 pint (250 ml) double/heavy cream

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  Beat together the egg yolks and honey in mixing bowl. Heat the milk in a saucepan until it reaches boiling point, then simmer. Whilst it’s simmering, stir in the egg yolk-honey mixture. Continue to stir until it thickens.

  Remove from the heat, strain, and leave to cool.

  Stir in the cream and the vanilla extract, and then transfer the whole mixture into an ice cream maker. Freeze according to the manufacturer’s instructions.

  31

  The fact that Alison Miller is not a perfect girl was what gave me hope. It was quite possible she’d hitched a ride into Bedford (she’s done that before) and was having the time of her life hanging out with “the bad girls.” I didn’t, however, for one second believe that she was staying at some boy’s house. Quite frankly, for better or for worse, I trust her too much for that.

  The so-called bad girls-it’s Alison’s term, not mine-are cousins of Levina Nichols, herself not such a good girl. Their mother, bless her heart, is a single mom and holds down three jobs just to put day-old bread on the table. Mrs. Nichols has neither the time nor energy required to raise three teenagers, and thus, it appears, has opted for the comfort of pretending that all is as it should be. The fact that her daughters habitually skip school, acquire clothes and cosmetics via the ten-finger discount, and sneak out of their window almost every night to roam the streets escapes Mrs. Nichols. Or does it?

  I wrested my crew from the pleasant warmth of Freni’s kitchen, and back into the car. Of course, I didn’t say anything about Alison having gone missing; Freni and my foster daughter are as thick as thieves. Two halves of an apple, as it were-just not the same variety. Freni is a Granny Smith apple, and Alison a Golden Delicious, although both can be crab apples upon occasion.

  “Nu,” Ida demanded, “vhere do vee look now?”

  “Bedford.”

  “Vhat? Vee are yust going to drive around looking for my Gabeleh mitout a plan?”

  “Actually, at the moment, we’re looking for Alison.”

  Ida gasped, and clapped her pudgy hands to her cheeks. “You mean your sheudo-shtepdaughter?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Pray tell,” Agnes wheezed, “what is a strudel-shtup-daughter?”

  “Oy,” Ida moaned, “dis von is a potty mouse.”

  “She is not a potty mouth,” I said. I turned and addressed Agnes. “That would be pseudo-stepdaughter, dear.”

  I filled them in on the Alison saga as I shtepped on the gas. In times of stress-perhaps a few other times as well-I have been known to press the pedal to the metal. It is an evil vice that I knowingly engage in. Speed kills, especially on our winding roads, which are heavily trafficked by slow-moving Amish buggies.

  But we made it to the Nicholses’ house without a major incident, and everyone, including myself, managed to keep her lunch down. When Ida saw the sort of house the bad girls called home, she feigned a hip problem. Agnes, ever the caring woman that she is, volunteered to stay in the car with my mother-in-law, leaving me to face alone whatever lay behind the sagging porch and peeling front door.

  The bell was missing, so I used my infamous knuckles. When, after I’d worn off several layers of skin, they failed to elicit a response, I tried the knob. The door was unlocked which, at least in my book, is tantamount to a formal invitation to come right on in and make oneself at home. This code of behavior, however, does not apply to my house.

  “Yoo-hoo,” I hollered pleasantly. “Is anyone here?”

  There was no response, but just when I was about to back out gracefully, I noticed what appeared to be a jumble of hastily discarded clothes in front of the swayback sofa. These days, it’s hard to tell which gender wears what, but it looked to me like these items represented both sexes.

  “Is everyone decent?” I called. “Because I’m coming in, whether you like it or not. I am, after all, a semi-official deputy of the Hernia Police Department, and I’m here on a missing per-son’s case. If the person in question can hear me, then I suggest she hie her hiney in a hurry to my car, which is waiting outside, or face the wrath of an overly distraught mother-one who has enough energy to make her daughter’s life miserable for decades to come.”

  Like a jack-in-the-box-make that a Jack and a Jill-from behind the sofa popped two teenagers. They were as naked as baby jaybirds.

  The girl spoke first. “We wasn’t doin’ nothin’. Honest. Please don’t tell my mama.”

  “It ain’t what it looks like,” the boy muttered.

  Still recovering from the shock of what I’d seen, I turned my back on the nude couple. “Is Alison Miller here?”

  “No!” Now that the girl knew I wasn’t gunning for her (to borrow a Presbyterian term), she’d traded in the vulnerable act for one of utter impudence.

  “Are you sure she’s not here?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She spit the words out like sunflower seeds.

  “You might want to watch your tone, missy. I’m not above butting in and letting your mama know what you’ve been up to. In fact, I think I will. Kids your age have no business doing the shag carpet shag without the benefit of clergy. Even then- Just how old are you, anyway?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “When were you born?”

  “Uh-that ain’t none of your business.”

  “Guess again, dear. From the glimpse I caught of your boyfriend, he’s been able to vote for several years. That could make him eligible for statutory rape charges. In that case, I, as a concerned citizen, would feel obligated to issue a citizen’s arrest.”

  “Jimmy,” she whispered, “when was eighteen years ago?”

  “It don’t matter,” Jimmy said. “I’m only fifteen.”

  “You are? Why Jimmy Cantrell, you lied
to me! You telling me I almost did it with a baby?”

  “I ain’t no baby!”

  “Kids,” I bellowed, “shut up and put your clothes back on.”

  Yes, those were harsh words, coming as they were from the mouth of a gentle Mennonite woman, but desperate times call for desperate measures. What counts is that they were effective words, and, a few seconds later, the teenagers informed me that they were dressed, and it was all right for me to turn around.