As The World Churns Part 22

"You bet your bippy. And once you start down that road with a trailer, there's no turning around."

"Oy, but it's getting dark outside!"

"Exactly! You see, there is a little pullover-where there used to be a kind of primitive rest area-and the odds are that, if they have indeed taken this route, they will avail themselves of this place until morning."

"Hmm," Wanda said, pretending to write on a pad, "now let me see, we have an order of kidnappers, and an order of rest area, and if we add an order of deputies-I'm sorry, to say, Magdalena, but they don't add up. If this couple is as bright as you say they are, they're not going to park a cow carrier alongside a highway."

"O ye of little faith," I said, quoting the latter part of Matthew 6:30. "I said there used to be a rest area. Now it's just a dent in the trees where folks in the know park to get to know each other in the Biblical sense. Not that I know whereof I speak, of course, at least not from personal experience-okay, so maybe once, or twice, six at the most, but we were already married, and how else were we going to get away from the prying eyes of you-know-who, and anyway, whether or not I did the backseat bossa nova is n.o.body's business but mine, and-"

"Such a s.l.u.t, I tell you."

I prayed for patience, and for once it was granted. "Since it was with your son, I will choose to take that as a compliment, dear. But listen up everyone, there is one other very important reason I think that the Pearlmutters are on Route 96 headed for the Maryland state line, and that is because once they reach it, there is another state line just five miles farther south."

"West Virginia," Wanda said knowingly. "Their motto is 'the MountainState.' It's supposed to be even wilder and woollier than Maryland. If you don't get captured by a mountain man and taken back to his cabin to be his s.e.x slave, you could hide for the rest of your life in those hills, and even the feds couldn't find you. I get this from my customers, by the way."

"Do you think any of those mountain men like their s.e.x slaves on the plump side?"

"Agnes!" I cried. I was shocked from the top of my cap-cov-ered bun to the tips of stocking-clad toes. I was also somewhat pleased by her gumption, misplaced as it was.

"Actually, they don't," Wanda said. "They prefer gaunt women. But don't worry; I get plenty of unmarried male customers who much prefer the curvier sort. Would you like me to fix you up?"

"Yes," she said shyly.

"Und do you get unmarried Jewish vomen customers?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"She's just being silly,"

"Speaking of being silly," turncoat Agnes said, "Magdalena, you take the cake. This is the computer age. States share their information. It's not like you can hide anymore, not in this age of Big Brother."

"Yes, but computer systems break down-so do power grids-and sometimes even the local jurisdictions engage in disputes. Tell me, Agnes, if you were on the run, where would you rather hide out, in the mountains of West Virginia, or in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania?"

"Touche."

I clapped my hands. "Ladies, attend to your a.s.signments. Agnes, call the sheriff as previously instructed, while I talk to the chief-if he's still on the line. Wanda, pack us up a box of nonperishable food sufficient for three days. As for you, Ida, just stay out of trouble."

I have st.u.r.dy Christian underwear older than Police Chief Ackerman, yet he had the gall to forbid me from undertaking my trek south to Maryland. Not only was it too dangerous, he said, but somewhat silly. Since none of my guests had arrived from that direction, none were likely to return by that route. People were creatures of habit, he informed me, as if I were a first-year psychology student inquiring about the workings of human nature. Besides, he went on to say (somewhat carelessly, I might add) that my a.s.sumption that my loved ones had been abducted by Holstein aficionados was absurd. What could possibly be the motive? To make an unwarranted trip to the wilds of Maryland was to behave foolishly.

When I trotted out my "two facts from a man" theory, he countered by claiming that gay men were the exception to the rule. "One hunch from a gay man is worth two hunches from a straight woman," he said.

"What if I were a lesbian?"

"Then my hunch would be worth one and a half of yours."

"You're just kidding, aren't you?"

"Weren't you?"

I'd been mentoring young Chris ever since his arrival a year ago as a fresh-faced a.s.sistant to our late chief, who met her untimely demise at the hands of one of Hernia's homegrown killers. Chief Ackerman had originally come across as both shy and eager to please. Clearly, he now had found his stride, which, although somewhat out of sync with mine, was a good thing. No longer did I have to hold his hand. This freed me up considerably, allowing me a lot of time to behave foolishly. And that is exactly what I intended to do.

34.

My team was on the ball. Agnes successfully relayed my message to the sheriff, who, like Chief Ackerman, openly scoffed at the idea of cow owners rustling humans. His APB, he said, was effectively cancelled, due to the fact that one of his deputies had just returned from a hunting trip to Maryland via Route 12, and no cars had been encountered coming the other way. He'd keep a watch on the interstates, but I shouldn't expect any dramatic news. Alison, he a.s.sured Agnes, was a runaway who would surface safe and sound at the time and location of her choosing. Ever a faithful friend, Agnes wished a pox upon his house and his descendants down to the fifth generation. (Fortunately, although the sheriff is married, his wife, like me, is past the breeding age.) Wanda came through with boxes of dried cereal, bags of dried fruit, ultraviolet-treated milk, a couple dozen sticks of beef jerky, and oodles of bottled water. She also produced AAA maps of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia. Perhaps just as important, she thought to bring along several rolls of toilet paper from her supply room.

Ida, bless her heart, honored my request and managed to stay out of trouble. She even helped Wanda carry the supplies out to my car. Taking into consideration that her son was missing, I tried not to be critical. But if the road to you-know-where is paved with good intentions, then I am a first-cla.s.s highway engineer.

"Ida, dear," I said sweetly, "why on earth are you carrying that cute little television?"

"You vant dat I should miss Yeopardy?"

"It's battery powered," Wanda said, "if that's your concern, Magdalena."

"My concern is that we don't get distracted from the task at hand."

"Nu," Ida said. "You vant dat I should drive?"

"No thanks, dear."

"Maybe you should let her," Agnes said. "That will free the rest of us up for sleuthing."

"She doesn't have a license," I said.

It wouldn't have mattered if she had. I'd seen Ida drive. In order to reach the pedals, she has to slide so far down in the seat that she can't see over the dashboard. This doesn't stop her. Every so often she hurls herself into the air to get a quick look-see of the road.

So far, she's miraculously avoided hitting anyone or anything of consequence-although some of our more worldly Hernia teenagers have taken to mimicking her technique for fun. "Doing the American Ida," they call it. Since the craze began, there have been three serious wrecks, one involving an Amish buggy, which sent three children to the hospital, and which resulted in the horse having to be put down. At any rate, on the plus side, the day Mat-tie Taylor saw a "driverless" car barreling down Hertzler Road is the day she gave up drinking.

At last, the four of us piled into my Ford and set off on our rescue mission. Once we pa.s.sed the blinking lights of Hernia, the road quickly grew dark and even more winding. If my vertically challenged mother-in-law had been at the wheel, at the first sharp turn, we would undoubtedly have sailed right off the road, perhaps even landing in the trees. In the autumn, some unlucky deer hunters would discover four skeletons-one clutching a pint-size TV. We would become the stuff of urban legend: the four ghosts of Route 96 that lay in wait for teenagers on weekend nights. "Earth to Magdalena," Agnes said through cupped hands.

"Come in, Magdalena."

"What?" I snapped, although not altogether unpleasantly. "You almost drove off the road at that last curve."

"I most certainly did not." Truth be told, I couldn't recall what the last curve looked like. "Speaking of flying off the road, where is it that you had your accident?"

Wanda must have forgotten that I have the hearing of a bat. "Magdalena almost died in a tree," she whispered to Ida. "And she had to wear a tampon on her forehead."

"Is she meshugah, or vhat?"

"Or what," I said. "My point," Wanda said, "is that you drive way too fast. I, for one, am not ready to meet my maker."

"Why, Wanda Hemphopple," Agnes said, "and you're always getting after me for no longer being a Mennonite."

"I would be one, if it wasn't for Magdalena."

"What?" I said. "What?" Agnes said. "Vhat?" Ida said. "Tag," Wanda said. "I guess I'm it. You see, ladies, Mrs.

Rosen-nee Yoder-and I have a long history."

"You vere lovers?" Ida said. She sounded hopeful. "No," Wanda said, "but the possibility did cross my mind once. Anyway, we've been feuding since we were kids, and then-"

"Since high school," I said. "It wasn't like we were toddlers when it all began."

"Actually, we were," Wanda said. "According to my mother, we were playing together in a sandbox, and you hit me over the head with a bucket."

"You mean that I had discerning taste all the way back then?"

"Very funny."

"And what's this about you having a thing for me? Or were you just pulling my leg?"

"A very shapely leg, Magdalena-now stop trying to distract me. The senior Mrs. Rosen would like to know why I'm not ready to die just yet. Or, for that matter, to welcome the Second Coming."

"Vas dere a first?"

"Good one, Ida," Agnes said.

"She's not joking," I said.

"As I was about to say," Wanda growled, "before I was so rudely interrupted, I don't want to die just yet because I'm not through hating Magdalena."

It was a cool evening, so I had the windows closed. When the three of us gasped, we literally depleted the car of oxygen. Perhaps that explains why I felt momentarily giddy.

"You really hate me that much?"

"I despise you. That's why I have all those life-size posters of you on my office walls."

"The ones on which you've drawn arrows going through my head and daggers into my heart. Don't you think that's a bit of overkill? Pun quite intended."

"This doesn't make any sense," Agnes said. "After all, you let Magdalena eat in your restaurant all the time."

"That's because I have to, or she'd call the police. She has them in her pocket, you know. Plus, her money is just as good as anyone else's."

"You know vhat surprised me vhen I moved to dis country," Ida said apropos nothing.

Agnes, always kind and considerate, took the bait. "What?"

"Dat dey use the same money here dat we used in New York."

"Wait a minute," Agnes said, "I must be confused. Which country uses the same currency as New York?"

"Oy, is dis von slow, or vhat?"

"The place she is referring to," I said, "is the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. She thinks it's a foreign country."

Ida clucked like a hen being robbed of her eggs. "Von must get a new license to drive, yah? Und pay new taxes. In Europe, vee called dat another country."

"I see," Agnes said, although she clearly didn't. "Magdalena, you don't seem at all upset that Wanda hates you. Do you hate her back?"

"That wouldn't be Christian, dear. I will, however, admit to intensely disliking her. But don't get me wrong, I'm not proud of the way I feel, and I pray for a change of att.i.tude." There was nothing to be served by adding that my prayers to feel better about Wanda are intermittent at best.

Agnes sighed loudly. "What a fine kettle of fish we are. I'm two hundred pounds overweight and so neurotic that my only friend is Magdalena; Ida believes we're in a foreign country; and you other two hate-or at least, intensely dislike-each other. What if there really are kidnappers, and we catch up with them? What are we supposed to do? Baffle them into submission?"

No one said anything for a long time.

"Vas dat a historical question?" Ida finally said.

"Yes," I said.

"Gut. Den I vill go to sleep."

One by one, all three of my pa.s.sengers succ.u.mbed to the sandman. That was fine with me. Although I was tired, I wasn't a bit sleepy. Route 12 through southern Pennsylvania twists and turns like a stubborn garden hose, requiring one's full attention. As if the topography isn't enough to keep one occupied, there is the constant possibility-maybe even a probability-that a deer will leap into the roadway and be blinded by one's headlights. Throw in the good chance that my missing loved ones might be in grave danger, and I had all the adrenaline I needed to make sure that my peepers stayed wide open.

But to be absolutely honest, I was thinking more about Wanda Hemphopple than anything else. Her words stung my soul; I could feel the pain just as surely as if I'd been slapped in the face with a latex glove-not that I've had a lot of experience with such things. What had I ever done to her that was so awful that she would risk h.e.l.lfire rather than forgive me? Okay, so maybe I did whack her on the bean with a bucket, dip her braids in my inkwell, put gum on her desk chair, sit on her paper-bag lunch, encourage her to copy the wrong answers from my paper during a math test, drop a hot dog into her beehive hairdo, spread a few rumors about her high school love life-but I was just a kid then, for crying out loud. Believe me, I have an even longer list of Wanda's sins against me, and I've managed to forgive her.

Perhaps it has little to do with what I've done, but a lot to do with who I am. Scientists have suggested that people have an inborn negative response to approximately one fifth of the general population. This response is visceral, and based on such cues as scent and physiognomy. It supposedly serves some evolutionary purpose-although, of course, there is no such thing as evolution.

I remember Mama saying that, in the 1930s, there was a woman living in Hernia named Barbara Peters, who always had it in for her. For as long as Mama could remember, Barbara Peters was mean to her. Mama never could figure out what she'd done to get on Barbara's bad side. One day, Mama could no longer stand it and wrote Miss Peters a note asking the woman to please explain what it was that she had done to deserve such treatment. Barbara's answer was cryptic to the extreme: "I've never liked you." Mama was actually so afraid that Miss Peters might have used poisoned ink in her reply that, after reading the note, Mama scrubbed her hands until they bled.

So preoccupied was I in pondering the enigma of Wanda's hatred toward me that I almost missed seeing the truck and trailer parked in a picnic area a few miles north of the border. Fortunately my pa.s.sengers were buckled in. Nonetheless, there followed shrieks of genuine fear and enough blue language to color the Pacific Ocean. I waited patiently for the latter to end before addressing the woman with the mouth of a sailor.

"Really, dear," I said to my mother-in-law, "is that the same mouth with which you used to sing lullabies to your son?"

"Vhat? You tink I have another?"

"You could have warned us," Agnes panted. "Magdalena," Wanda snarled, "if you'd peed back at the Sausage Barn, you wouldn't have to go so bad now."

"Ladies," I said, "if you're capable of it, turn your heads and look back up the highway about a hundred yards. Tell me what you see."

"Oy vey! I can't turn my head."

"Ida, darling," I said with utmost patience, "perhaps it would help if you unbuckled your seat belt."

"I can't turn my head either," Agnes said. "Do you think I have whiplash?"

With the help of the Good Lord, I avoided stating the obvious: Agnes was incapable of swiveling her noggin for the same reason she couldn't touch her toes.

"Wanda, what do you see?"

"Darkness. The highway. Maybe some trees."

"Look further to the left."