As The World Churns Part 5

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 m.u.f.fled 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-cla.s.s 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 Shnook.u.ms 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 members.h.i.+p, 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.

"At least I'm not a hypocrite," Susannah said.

"Is that what you think I am? A hypocrite?"

"If the shoe fits, Mags. Or should I say the st.u.r.dy black brogan?"

"I was just being honest about my innermost feelings. I'd hardly call that hypocritical."

"Face it, sis, you and I aren't like the rest of our family. Do you think we're adopted?"

"Me, maybe. But definitely not you. I'm eleven years older than you; I remember the day you were born."

"Were you there? In the room? Did you actually see me being born?"

"Don't be silly, Susannah. Mama didn't even know she had a v.a.g.i.n.a until she was fifty-six and we made her go to the gynecologist. Before that it was just 'down below.' And since she never, ever, looked at herself, she certainly wouldn't have allowed me to. No, I was told Papa found you under a cabbage in the vegetable patch out behind the barn."

"There! You see? We could both be adopted."

"A sobering thought, dear," I said. "One that might lead to a mult.i.tude of possibilities, given that we already know that Papa sowed his seed in somebody else's garden patch-if you get my drift."

"Mags, you are so old fas.h.i.+oned. Papa slept with Zelda Root's mother, plain and simple. He was an adulterer. It's perfectly all right to say it."

"And now I feel a migraine coming on. But I still want to know what you're doing in my bed."

"I'll tell you, but first you have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you won't breathe a word of this to a soul."

"You know I can't do that. And anyway, I should be offended; I practically raised you. If you can't trust me, then you can't trust anyone. I love you, Susannah, which means I would never betray you."

"But that's exactly it," my sister wailed. While I realize that wailing is not a common human vocalization, members of our family are peculiarly blessed in being able to do so well. And quite a blessing it is, don't you think? When we're caught in heavy traffic (admittedly quite rare in Hernia), we simply hang our heads out of our car windows and let her rip. Other cars pull over just as surely as if we were official emergency vehicles. And since half of the time we really are facing emergencies, I don't feel too guilty about taking liberties with my voice.

"I don't understand," I said calmly.

"Who do I love more than anyone else in the world?"

"Moi," I said smugly.

"Yeah, but besides you."

"Not the mantis!"

"His name is Melvin. And I can't believe he didn't love me back."

I didn't need a crystal ball to see where this conversation was headed. "Insect or man, he's still a murderer. He killed my minister, for crying out loud. And if it wasn't for my st.u.r.dy Christian underwear, he would have killed me too. Every day I thank G.o.d for Sears and JCPenney. If I'd been wearing something skimpy from Victoria's Secret, I'd have been splattered at the base of Stucky Ridge."

"Oh, Mags, you're always so dramatic. If you're not even going to try to keep an open mind, then I'm not going to tell you."

"There's more?"

She nodded.

"Okay, but if my brain falls out on account of my mind being too open, it's your fault."

"Mags, I've been having this dream. In it, Melvin contacts me and asks me to run away with him."

My teeth settled into familiar grooves as I bit my tongue. "What is your response, dear?"

"I go with him, of course. Together we crisscross America dodging the long arm of the law, just like Bonnie and Clyde. We rob banks only when we have to eat. The rest of the time we rob fabric stores. But just so you know, we never actually shoot anybody."

Needless to say, I was fit to be tied-my tongue, however, was not. "Well, I don't care who this Bonnie and Clydesdale are. What you're saying is disgusting. If Mama and Papa could hear you, they'd die all over again. From shame this time."

"It's only a dream, Magdalena. We aren't responsible for our dreams."

"Maybe. But it's become the subject of your daydreams too, hasn't it?"

"If I said yes, would you hate me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll always love you. But I'd be very, very disappointed."

Susannah's response was to burrow back under the covers until not a hair on her endangered head was showing.

9.

My guests pay dearly for their food, but they can't ask for a better spread. Even though Freni was worried sick about Doc, she produced a meal fit for a queen: blueberry pancakes with freshly churned b.u.t.ter and real maple syrup; waffles; biscuits as light as clouds; warm, fragrant banana-nut bread; bacon, ham, sausage patties and sausage links; fruit salad; flavored yogurts, as well as plain; oatmeal served with raisins and brown sugar; a wide variety of cold cereals; and, of course, eggs cooked to order. She also offered sc.r.a.pple and headcheese, but there were no takers for those two delicacies. It has always puzzled me that some folks object to eating organ meats, but not to eating muscle tissue. They're all parts of a dead animal, for crying out loud.

At any rate, because the dear woman has a habit of talking to no one in particular, it took a while to register that Freni was addressing me, and not the bacon sizzling in her frying pan.

"Why always a contest?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you not listen, Magdalena?"

"I'm trying to listen, but that bacon is mighty loud." It was only the smallest of white lies, and told only so as not to hurt her feelings.

"The English," she said, referring to anyone not Amish. "Why must everything be a contest? We have cows too, yah, but they are humble cows."

"Who produce humble pies."

"Ach, always so quick with the riddles."

"Is it my fault I'm so talented?"

Freni shook her head. Given that she has virtually no neck, her entire body moved with the effort. Had it not been for her st.u.r.dy Christian underwear, it might have been unseemly.

"Your mama was my best friend, Magdalena. I was there when you were born, yah? Otherwise I am not so sure you are hers."

"You were there?" This was news to me. I'd always heard it was Granny Yoder who helped bring me into the world, with the aid of canning tongs. It was either that, or the cabbage patch story.

Freni turned the color of rhubarb sauce. "Okay, maybe I am not there exactly on time, but it was spring, and I am feeling the oats. To make short the story, I did not see you born."

"It was September, and you were already happily married to Mose. Your oats should have been well felt by then."

"So now the truth, yah?"

"If you don't spill it all now, I'm telling the English that your biscuits are store-bought."

"Ach! Okay, I will spill." She turned off the bacon and took a deep breath, her enormous bosom rising and falling like a small tsunami. "Yah, it is time for the truth."

"And nothing but."

"Your mama was barren, Magdalena. Just like you. And Miss Sarah, the friend you speak so much of."

"You mean the Sahara, as in desert?"

"Please, Magdalena, this is no time for the riddles."

Her words began to sink in. "No way!"

"But your papa-well, you already know about Zelda. So anyway, there was a young woman, a teenager, who came in the family way. Some say that the baby's papa was your papa, and some say it was a stranger. To make short the story-"

"So I am adopted?"

Freni shrugged, which is to say, her bosom bobbled even more. "I think maybe you are half adopted, because you look just like your papa."

I felt like I'd been punched in the soft hollows behind my knees. Truly, I was in danger of collapsing. And since I also felt like throwing up, I had to be careful where I landed.

"And Susannah? Is she adopted as well?"

"Maybe not so much."

"Not so much? What does that mean?"

"It means that by now the desert is blooming, yah?" I staggered over to sit in a "distressed" kitchen chair-one of several for which I'd paid big bucks, following a freak tornado several years ago that demolished my heirloom kitchen chairs. The originals had been in Mama's family for two centuries-ex-cept now she wasn't my mama. Not really.

"Magdalena, are you all right?"