As the World Churns (8 page)

    
“In a minute, dear.”

    My darling husband held out his arms, as if he intended for me to jump into them. “Hon, you heard the man. Get down.”

    It was, in retrospect, a reasonable request. However, in addition to being genetically gifted in the lung department, and sadly deficient in the hug department, we Yoders sometimes carry the gene for contrariness. Tell us to go right, and we’ll go left. Of course those of us with that gene have long since separated from the Amish, who adhere to a code of obedience, and most of us are no longer even Mennonite. But there are exceptions to every rule, I suppose, because I am still of the faith, even though I am every bit as obstinate as a second-generation president.

    “Listen up, folks,” I continued to holler, “
none
of you are leaving, because all of you were here when poor old Doc Shafor was assaulted.”

    “So were you,” Candy Brown chirped.

    I glared at the woman who dared jiggle her keester at the South Pole. Since it was dark, and she couldn’t see my expression clearly, it didn’t really count as mean-spirited.

    “You’re quite right, my dear. So I’ll stay here as well.”

    “Suit
yourself
,” Jane Pearlmutter muttered. “But you have no legal right to prevent us from leaving.”

    The Bible commands us not to bear false witness against our neighbors: in other words, we are not supposed to accuse them of something of which they are not guilty. Nowhere in the big ten does it say “thou shalt not lie.” The way I see it, the Good Lord gives us a great deal more latitude than we are commonly taught to believe. To not take advantage of this generous state of affairs is to be downright ungrateful. Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, I chose my words carefully.

    “As I’m sure you all know by now, Doc Shafor-the man who was mugged in the barn-was one of the judges,” I said. “He’s a veterinarian with a great deal of experience examining udders.”

    “Your point, please,” said Vance Brown. As a modern dairyman, the odds were that Vance had seen a lot more udders in one day than Doc had in his lifetime. After all, Doc’s specialty was horses.

    “What if I
were
to say that he confided in me that one cow in particular stood out head and shoulders above the rest?”
That was a hypothetical question, and not even
a lie, much less a broken commandment.

    Dick Pearlmutter, who’d been standing with one foot on the running board of his truck, stepped off and approached me. “Are you saying that the competition is still a go?”

    Frankly, I’d been so busy worrying about my elderly
friend, that
I hadn’t even thought about the competition-okay, so I hadn’t thought about it a
lot
. Contrary to some reports, I am only human. But during my fleeting thoughts, it had occurred to me that the best way to honor Doc, and thwart his assailant, was to continue as best as we could, as if the assault had never taken place. Of course I needed to find a judge ASAP, but even in a very small farming community like
ours, that
would hardly be a problem.

    “Surely you jest, Mr. Pearlmutter,” I said, and forced an agreeable smile.

    “But isn’t it too late to find a replacement judge?”

    
“Nonsense, dear.
In Hernia, connoisseurs of bovine beauty are a dime a dozen.”

    Harry Harmon turned to his brother. “I still think we should head back home, before something like what happened to that old man happens to one of us.”

    “You won’t be getting refunds-not for your rooms or your stable fees.”

    “Then we’ll sue,” Jane said.

    Gertie Fuselburger shook her dyed head vigorously. “I’m afraid that would be useless, Mrs. Pearlmutter,” she said. “I read Miss Yoder’s contract, and it’s ironclad. You did read it, dear, didn’t you?”

    “No contract is ironclad, you old biddy. We’ll hire the best lawyer on the East Coast.”

    I am proud to say that my husband stepped up to the plate. “Hey, watch the name-calling.”

    “And you don’t get to speak to my wife that way,” Dick said. I must say that for a former stockbroker, he looked remarkably, and worrisomely, fit. That is the problem with the trend these days of providing exercise equipment at the office. A white-col-lar worker is
supposed
to be a ninety-seven-pound weakling incapable of slinging a calf over his shoulder.

    “Oh yeah?” the Babester said.
“How about the way you’ve all been treating my wife?
Her oldest and dearest friend is lying in the ICU, and what does she find when she finally gets back home from the hospital? Renegers, that’s what.”

    Harry turned to his brother. “Did he just use a racial epithet?”

    Sensing that bedlam was about to ensue, I flapped my arms and crowed like a rooster. That got their attention. I’m pretty good at crowing, if I do say so myself. So good in fact that a real rooster, my beloved Chanticleer II, responded in kind, even though it was still the dead of night.

    Gertie Fuselburger, bless her fossilized heart, clapped her hands with glee. “Oh, Miss Yoder, everything you do is positively delightful.”

    “I think Miss Yoder might be crazy,” Candy Brown said.

    When no one, not even Gabe, jumped in to contradict her, I knew it was time to resort to drastic measures. “I’m going to up the prize money by fifty thousand dollars,” I said.

    Gabe tried to grab one of my slim, shapely ankles. His intention, I believe, was to pull me off the Harmons’ truck, and haul me indoors before my lips could get me into any more trouble. Fortunately, having played oodles of hopscotch as a girl, I was able to elude his grasp.

    “Are you sure, hon?” he whispered. “Where’s this money coming from?”

    “I’m sure,” I hollered. “Okay, folks, how about you all turn around, unload your trailers, and go back into the inn for a good night’s sleep?”

    This time, not a soul objected.

    My sleep was punctuated by nightmares. In between dreams, I must have tossed and turned like a princess on a pea, because when I finally woke up, even though I was still under the covers, my head was at the foot of the bed. Thank heavens I am not claustrophobic.

    But what surprised me even more than my new location, was the fact that, sometime during the night, my dear husband had chosen to join me. This discovery made me almost as happy as the moment, under the chutzpah, when he pledged himself to me until death do us part. Or was that a chuppah? It certainly wasn’t a Chanukah; that I know is the Jewish festival that generally takes place in late December.

    At any rate, I should be ashamed to confess that discovering the Babester in my bed gave me an enormous amount of schadenfreude. Ida was going to be fit to be tied, and with any luck she would become tongue-tied as well. Of course this wasn’t a Christian attitude to take; it was actually rather sinful of me. But I fully intended to confess this sin as soon as I’d indulged in a few minutes of this guilty pleasure. Failure to enjoy life’s little blessings is also a sin, if you ask me.

    Nevertheless, as a good Mennonite, I do not believe in fancy forms of sexual foreplay, seeing as how they might lead to dancing. “Brace
yourself
, Magdalena” is good enough for me. Still, I thought Gabe deserved a reward for ditching his ma in favor of
moi
. Although it is no one’s business but my own, I will admit that during the height of my gratitude-inspired passion, I went so far as to engage in a wanton act so private I don’t even think it has a name. Alas, it was far less satisfying than I had imagined.

    For one thing, I didn’t remember the Babester as having one foot so much hairier than the other. The hirsute tootsie also smelled a great deal worse. In all frankness, kissing his right foot was not only bad enough to dampen my ardor, but I fleetingly considered becoming a nun. Yes, I realize that would require a change of religion, but in one fell swoop, I could lose the mother-in-law and pick up some new habits. But, like I said, it was only a fleeting thought.

    “Really, dear,” I said, my voice muffled by the covers, “a good depilatory and some foot powder could do wonders.”

    My beloved’s voice was equally as distorted. Funny, but he sounded almost like a woman.

    “I can’t believe you said that, Mags.”

    Uh-oh, now I’d hurt his feelings. Gabe, as befits an only son, is a world-class pouter. He once sulked for six days straight just because I washed a cashmere sweater of his. In my defense, it was in the laundry basket along with everything else, and everything I own is either cotton or that staple of sensible women everywhere: polyester blend.

    “Darling,” I purred soothingly, “I still love you, no matter how much your feet stink.”

    Gabe even laughed like a woman. “Who knew you had a sense of humor?”

    “I had it transplanted, dear. John Kerry had an extra one lying about, and generously decided to share. Of course, I had to agree to donate part of my brain to Bush when I die; they said anything was better than nothing.”

    The Babester found this enormously funny, and thrashed about like a trout on a stream bank. Ever the good sport, I decided to add to the jocularity by lightly pinching his hairiest toe.
Boy,
was I in for a surprise; my husband’s toes are capable of pinching back! And hard!

    Quite understandably, I screamed and threw back the covers. When I beheld who, and what, were sharing my bed, I screamed again. Then again, and even louder, just for good measure.

    “Mags,” my sister said, as she tried unsuccessfully to put her hand over my mouth, “calm down. It’s not the end of the world.”

    “You’ve got that right. Because neither of us is budging from this one until I’ve given you a piece of my mind. And as for that mangy little mongrel of yours, you get that horrid little beastie out of my bed this instant!”

    In 1984, when Susannah was a teenager, she won first place in Hernia’s third annual Who Sighs
The
Loudest Contest. The sigh she emitted now put that one to shame.

    “All right, but you’ve got to stop calling my iddle-widdle Shnookums a mongrel. It hurts his teensy-weensy feelings. I’ve told you a million times that he’s a purebred Russian terrier.”

    
“A Russian terrorist, maybe.
Now get that rat out of my bed before I call an exterminator!”

    Even Susannah got nipped when she tried to evict the two-pound canine with the one-pound sphincter. But when the task was done she crawled back under the covers and laid her head on my shoulder. I can’t recall her doing that since she was three, and had just finished sobbing herself into a comatose state. That happened just after Granny Yoder told her that the Easter Bunny was a Catholic creation thought up by the pope as a plot to rot the teeth of Protestant children. Anyway, this sudden display of intimacy was a shock to my nervous system, and I almost went comatose as well.

    It was a struggle to string two words together. “What gives?”

    “What do you mean? Aren’t I allowed to snuggle with my own sis?”

    
“Probably not in at least six states.”

    “That was actually funny, Mags. You know, marriage has really changed you. You even look different.”

    
“How so?”

    “It’s hard to describe.”

    “Give it a shot, dear. If it’s complimentary, I have all the time in the world.”

    “Well, you kinda have this glow about you.”

    “That’s because I’m burning with rage. I know I’m not supposed to think like this-that it’s totally against everything I believe and hold dear-but if I ever get my hands on whoever did this to Doc, I’ll-uh-”

    “Rip his or her head off? Smash them with a crowbar? I hear you, sis. Doc Shafor is a dirty old man, but a sweet one. I’m mad too.”

    “Tell me, Susannah, how did the Amish-the ones whose children were gunned down in the schoolhouse-forgive so easily?”

    
“Beats me.
But then again, I couldn’t even handle being a Mennonite.”

    “Or a Presbyterian,” I said. Perhaps that was unfair of me. The day she came of age, and much against our parents’ wishes, Susannah ran off and married a nominal Presbyterian, one who didn’t even believe in predestination. Shortly after the wedding, she officially changed her church membership, an act which really broke our parents’ hearts, seeing as how our ancestors have been, at various times, either Mennonite or Amish since the 1500s. Less than three months later, she divorced Doug, and that was the end of any churchgoing for my baby sister. To call her a backslider would be unfair to millions of other nominal Christians, ones who feel guilty about their spiritual decline; Susannah didn’t just backslide, she dropped like a pallet of bricks from a ten-story building.