As The World Churns Part 17

"Diagnosis? Agnes, dear, you of all people should know that, despite advancements in modern diagnostic machines, doctors are reluctant to give diagnoses. They'd rather have their egos excised."

"Why, Magdalena, what a judgmental thing for you to say. So you are all better!"

"I'm fine as frog's hair, dear. Now tell me where everyone is."

"They've gone home-I guess. The first annual Hernia Holstein Compet.i.tion is officially over."

"Agnes, I'm not in the mood for jokes. Besides, you've never had a sense of humor-and I mean that kindly-so why start now?"

"It's not a joke. Your handsome husband rushed things so much, he was able to cram two days of judging into one. As for the festivities, well-you can see for yourself. Three Amish men on p.o.o.p-scooping detail, and they're not even cute. Whoopee." She twirled her index finger in the air.

"But what about the hot dog vendor and the cotton candy machine? And the three-legged stilt walker? Where are they?"

"The stilt walker called in last night to say he'd broken one of his legs. The vendors stayed only until the winner was announced, because that's when the crowd, such as it was, left. Everyone is angry, Magdalena. They say that they were ripped off by the high ticket prices for a show that didn't deliver. As for the contestants and their cows-they actually came to fisticuffs. I mean the contestants did. For the most part, the cows were well-behaved."

I moaned, my new alternative to wailing. "Whose cow won? Was it a local farmer?"

Agnes, like Freni, lacks a neck. Shaking her head must create a good deal of friction, but she bravely did so anyway. That's how strong her emotions were.

"A local win, suspect as it might be, would be great for the economy. I'm afraid it was one of your people."

"My people? I only have Mose and the Amish lad who milks for me. I don't recall either of them entering a cow."

"No, one of your guests."

I had to swallow hard to keep my heart in my chest. "Who? What were their names?"

"Hmm. Pearlman, I think."

"You mean Pearlmutter? Was she uncommonly plain, to use an oxymoron, and was he to-die-for gorgeous?"

"Yes, one might describe them like that."

"Rats. I was really hoping that, if it couldn't be one of our homegrown farmers, the delightful Gertie Fuselburger would win."

"Now you're joking-right?"

"Nay, I joketh noteth. I think she's a hoot."

"Wrong. You should have witnessed the hissy fit she threw when she was eliminated after the first round. I was seriously worried that she would have a stroke. How old is she anyway? A hundred?"

"Knock off a third of a century and you'll be closer. But don't stop there. Tell me what her hissy fit was like. And it's not that I just want to gossip either-a good grasp of human nature is helpful to me as an innkeeper."

Agnes chortled. "A good grasp? Magdalena, if human nature had an esophagus, you'd have long since asphyxiated it. Anyway, she cussed a blue streak-even threatened to call the cops."

"The police? What for?"

27.

"Something about the contest being rigged. At the very least, she said, she'd be calling the BMC. Magdalena, what on earth is that?"

"Bovine Mediating Council. It's a little-known organization that settles cow disputes. But never mind that, could you please give me a ride home? I was planning to ride with Gabe. Speaking of whom, how did he do? More importantly, how did he manage to run through two days' events in less than one?"

"He spoke like an auctioneer, that's how."

"Well, he is a New Yorker; they all talk fast."

"No, I mean he really spoke like an auctioneer. He rattled off a million words a minute. It seemed like he didn't even stop to breathe. Everyone was complaining, Magdalena, but your husband essentially told them all to shut up. He said that you gave him the absolute authority to do things however he pleased. You should have seen the faces of the judges. That's how the Roman senate must have looked when Julius Caesar took over as lifetime dictator. Although I've seen statues of Caesar, and your Gabriel is much better looking."

I nodded. "And if there's a dish named after my sweetie, it better be more than just a salad."

We chatted amiably on the way home, as best friends are wont to do. But when we got to the juncture of Main Street and Hertzler Road , Agnes pulled over onto the shoulder, which is also the west bank of Slave Creek. Legend has it that escaped slaves followed this stream north from Maryland and to freedom. I am all for believing in legends-just as long as they don't contradict my faith-but the truth is that not only does Slave Creek begin in Pennsylvania, it ends here as well, having emptied its meager flow into the mighty Allegheny. Still, it is a nice legend, and the only other person aware of this fallacy is Doc, and neither of us intends to breathe a discrediting word.

"Agnes," I said with as much pleasantness as I could muster, "why on earth are we stopping? I need to get home p.r.o.nto. ASAP. Be a dear and press the pedal to the metal."

"Magdalena, I need to ask you something first."

"The answer is no. I will not run away with you to homestead in the wilds of Alaska. I hear that in the summer the mosquitoes are as big as starlings, and that-"

"Please don't wisecrack."

I sighed. "Okay, I'll try not to, difficult as it may be. Now, what is it?"

"I think I'm in love."

"That's exactly what I was trying to get across. I love you too, Agnes, but only as a friend."

"What? I'm not in love with you! Honestly, Magdalena, when are you going to learn that the world does not revolve around you?"

That stung. Yes, I am guilty of thinking that I am the center of the universe-but only my universe. It's called having an ego, and it's not necessarily a bad thing. As tempted as I was to retort with the argument that we all think that way, I took the high road and merely pantomimed locking my mouth with a key and tossing it out the window.

Agnes gave me a challenging look until she was quite satisfied I'd been properly put in my place. "I'm in love with Harmon Dorfman. He's in love with me too, I just know it. It was love at first sight. He wants me to move to North Dakota and marry him there. When I told him I have the uncles to care for, he volunteered to move down here."

I sat bolt upright, my eyes bulging from the pressure of unreleased words.

"Don't be such a pain, Magdalena. Unlock your mouth and tell me what you think. Tell me what you really think; don't hold back a thing."

I didn't even bother to look for the invisible key. "I think that you must be nuts. Not only are you off your rocker, but you must have fallen off and hit your head. Agnes, Harmon Dorfman is one of the most irritating men I've ever met, and I say that with Christian charity."

"Magdalena, I've always been glad that you're not a pagan. So Harmon isn't your cup of tea-that doesn't mean he's not right for me. I'm forty-six years old, Magdalena, and not pretty like you. The last date I had was in college, and he was a blind date. I mean that literally."

"But Harmon Dorfman walks around without a shirt."

"So what? Have you forgotten that the uncles don't wear pants?"

"And he claims to have cloned a cow."

"His brother claims that, not him. Besides, Harry withdrew the claim this morning when the crowd booed his announcement."

"Gabe let him announce it?"

"Yes, and forgive me, Magdalena, but it was mean of your husband to allow him to hang himself like that. Gabe is a doctor; he knew Harmon was faking it."

"Faking or trying to pull the wool over our unsophisticated eyes? I think most folks would call that attempted thievery."

Agnes extended her jaw in defiance, which set her chins to wobbling. When she gets into this frame of mind, there is no dissuading her.

"When are you leaving for North Dakota?"

"Oh, Magdalena, do you really mean it? Are you really going to support me in this?"

My sigh ruffled the surface of Slave Creek. "Yes, silly, but I'm not going to stop by to check on the uncles without you there. When you've seen one, you've seen one too many, if you ask me. I still can't look at a turkey neck without blushing."

She giggled. "I couldn't ask for a better friend. And the answer is Thursday. By this time next week, I plan to be Mrs. Harmon Dorfman."

I shuddered.

Freni must have heard the car pull up my gravel driveway, but she waited until Agnes was back on the road again before making her move. Then she burst through the back door and practically threw herself down the steps, flapping her stubby arms vigorously like a plump hen that can't quite achieve liftoff.

"Ach, where have you been?"

"In the hospital. And how are you, dear?"

"Yah, I know about the hospital. But I called them, and they said that you checked out an hour ago. Where have you been since then?"

"Agnes plans to marry Harmon Dorfman."

"Ach," Freni squawked, and flapped her arms one last time. "That one is not right in the head."

"Harmon or Agnes?"

Her eyes glinted behind the thick lenses, which meant she was trying hard not to smile. "Two pecans on the same branch, yah?"

"Yes, but at least Agnes is sincere. I'm afraid she's going to be hurt."

"She is a smart woman, Magdalena. Perhaps she can take care of herself. But your husband-well, what does he know of life outside his Big Banana?"

"Excuse me?"

"It means New York." She wiped lard and flower from her gla.s.ses with a black sleeve. "How is it that I know this name, and you do not?"

A ray of light shone into my primordial brain. "Ah! You're referring to the Big Apple!"

"They are both fruit, yah?"

Sometimes I can't help myself. "A pea and a head of cabbage are both vegetables, both green, and both round, yet they're hardly the same thing."

When Freni loses an argument, she first wipes her hands carefully on her starched white ap.r.o.n. Then she heads to the large ceramic pot that is kept on a bench beside the stove, and withdraws from it a lump of rising dough. She proceeds to punch every last microscopic air pocket from the dough, before placing it in a new location so that it can rise again. The result is a never-ending supply of the best bread, buns, and cinnamon rolls this tongue has ever tasted. Please believe me, it is seldom my intention to goad my sweet, elderly cousin, but if we didn't disagree from time to time, I would have to buy commercial bread. Then we'd both lose.

Today, however, Freni didn't budge. "Maybe you need to sit now, yah?"

"What ever for? I've been lying in bed all day. It's about time my feet got some blood."

She sighed heavily, sending airborne those particles of flour that had not been captured by the grease. "Okay, but this is not such good news."

"Freni, in the last six years, you have quit exactly one hundred and eighteen times. Given that you'll be back here tomorrow morning, at the latest, quitting your job is hardly earth-shattering news."

"Ach, this is no time for the lecture. Your Gabe is in trouble."

"What?"

"He calls me this afternoon while I am making the shoofly pie. I am just pouring the liquid onto the crumbs, so I cannot stop, yah? So then he calls again in five minutes. Maybe less. He says that he tries to call you at the hospital, but can get no signal. He says to warn you that the contest is not going so well."

"Don't stop!"

"But that is where he stops."

"Where is he now? Have you heard from him since then?"

Freni shrugged and shook her head at the same time, which, given her physiognomy, was an economy of motion. But not to worry; surely my Bubeleh was across the road being comforted by the stubby arms of you-know-who.

I dialed his number. His cell rang five times, and then switched me over to voice mail. If I had one of those dingleberry things, or whatever they are, I would have tried to send him a text message. But I didn't. Instead, I did what every red-blooded, able-bodied, American woman would do: I prayed for wisdom. After sending up my smoke signal to the Almighty, I hiked up my skirts, retied my sensible black brogans, and ran the quarter of a mile to the farmhouse that my beloved still, if inexplicably, owns. Fit as I am-from repeatedly jumping to conclusions-I wasn't the least bit winded upon my arrival.

Gabe's car was in the long gravel driveway, parked next to the house, but that didn't mean much. The one thing HerniaHigh School has a dearth of-besides students-is parking places. The Babester had already told me he planned to hitch a ride into town with one of the judges, so as to leave a s.p.a.ce free for one of our many expected visitors. If pressed, however, my husband would undoubtedly admit that, as a New Yorker, he isn't used to driving. I've seen him freeze up when he gets behind an Amish buggy, as if he doesn't know whether to honk impatiently, or get out and snap pictures.

At any rate, I checked the barn first, where he has his writing studio, before making a beeline for the house. Of course, I didn't knock or ring the bell. Why should I? Not only is my beloved mine, so is his property. The Babester and I commingled our belongings before commingling ourselves, on the grounds that anything less was a vote of no confidence. Anyway, neither my spouse nor his meddling ma were on the ground floor, so I sprinted up the stairs to the bedroom that my Sweet Cakes used to occupy before our blissful nuptials. I screeched to a stop just inside the door.

What I saw turned my stomach.

28.

Ida Rosen, clad only in her flimsy Jewish underwear, is not a pretty sight. Perhaps no mother-in-law would be. Ida apparently felt the same way, because she shrieked and fell into an open suitcase on the floor.

Let those who think I am mean-spirited pay special attention to the following: I did not close the suitcase, shutting her inside, and ship her off to a made-up address in Outer Mongolia. Instead, I helped her out, averting my eyes the entire time, even when she said, "Oy, the second shtrap just broke. So now vhat am I going to do?"

"Please just get dressed," I said. "Shtrap or no shtrap. I'll wait outside until you're done."