As the World Churns Read online

  By the end of my delightful monologue, Jane Pearlmutter was shaking in her flip-flops, and had practically climbed into her husband’s arms. “That woman is crazy!”

  “Aren’t we all, dear?”

  “Dick, I want to go home.”

  “You do realize that you’ve paid in full, and that none of it is refundable—don’t you?”

  “I don’t care!”

  “And of course you would be forfeiting the competition for best Holstein, seeing as how it will be impossible to find alternative lodging for you and your cows.”

  “Sweetie,” Dick said, his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders, “we did read somewhere that this is poised to be the number-one event of its kind in the world.”

  Plain Jane wrenched herself free. “We read that in her stupid brochure!”

  I gestured towards the Dorfman brothers’ cattle carrier. “Before you go, take a peek in there. You’re never going to see Holsteins as fine as those two.”

  “You wanna bet?”

  “With entries like this, the Hernia Holstein Competition is destined for world-class status.”

  Dick gently edged his wife aside and stood facing me, nose to nose. “We have two entries as well. Both of them are from the finest bloodlines available, and conform perfectly to the standard. Miss Yoder, we’re not going anywhere. Now where do we pasture our cows?”

  I quickly turned my head so that my smug smile—admittedly a sin—wouldn’t be seen. It was going to be a fine competition.

  4

  As Mama used to say, “There is no rest for the wicked.” No sooner had I gotten both couples settled in, and their cows pastured, than a third truck pulled down my long gravel lane. This vehicle, however, had seen better days, as had the cattle carrier. However, the couple that emerged was quite attractive in an offbeat way.

  Vance Brown—he immediately introduced himself—was approaching middle age, and short in stature, but he still had a full head of dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His wife, Candy Brown, was a willowy strawberry blonde whose delicate features were all but hidden by a galaxy of freckles. They both seemed as friendly as dogs at suppertime, and I looked forward to getting to know them better.

  On their registration form, I had Vance down as a dairy farmer, but agreeable as she was, I just couldn’t see Candy mucking out a barn or scrubbing milk vats. Since subtle interrogation appears to be one of my few God-given talents, I decided to give it a try.

  “What’s your shtick, Candy?”

  “Pardon me?”

  You see? Ida’s bad habits were rubbing off on me. Where was the soft-spoken Mennonite lass from yesteryear? I tried again.

  “Are you employed outside the home, dear?”

  “Not anymore. We have three children, and one in the oven. Getting away for competition is a real treat for me.”

  I gave her a second, more careful look. Her tummy was as flat as a thin-crust pizza. If she gave birth any time soon, it would have to be to a paper doll—unless she literally meant that she had one in an oven somewhere.

  “You don’t say.”

  “Candy keeps herself in great shape,” Vance said, his voice filled with pride. “Tell her what you used to do, sweetie.”

  Candy’s deep blush appeared to connect her freckles. “I’d rather not.”

  “Aw, come on, sweet cakes.”

  “Nah.”

  “Oh, come on, cinnamon roll,” I said. If you’re going to use pastries as forms of endearment, you may as well be specific.

  “All right, if you insist.”

  “Which I do. But just so you know, that was one of those giant cinnamon rolls with cream cheese icing on top. You know, the kind you find at airports.”

  Candy took a deep breath and looked away. “I was a pole-dancer.”

  I prayed for a gentle tongue. “You do know, don’t you, that dancing is a sin? But as regards your nationality, you ought not to be embarrassed; I’ve known many fine Poles in my life. And a few good Lithuanians as well.”

  Vance suppressed a laugh, which annoyed me to no end.

  “Well, I have,” I snapped. “Shame on you, Mr. Brown. Your children are half Polish, so if you look down on this lovely woman—”

  “Not that kind of pole!”

  I clapped my hands to my face in dismay. “Oh no. Don’t tell me that now there’s a dance hall in Antarctica.”

  “Miss Yoder, you’re a hoot.”

  “And a holler. But this isn’t at all funny; sin never is. Because the Bible tells us to carry salvation to the ends of the earth, I’ve often wondered about sin down there. I mean, I sort of knew there had to be sin going on in Antarctica, given all the scientists working in such close quarters, but I was curious as to which kind. What would there be to steal, and how could you conceal it? Murder would be stupid, because there is nowhere to run to hide. And you couldn’t very well covet your neighbor’s ass down there, could you?”

  The Browns looked a mite confused which, sadly, is par for the course with folks lacking a proper spiritual upbringing. I would have plunged on with my analysis of antipodean iniquity, had not a fourth truck and trailer turned into the drive.

  The last guest to arrive was a Mrs. Gertrude Fuselburger, an elderly widow from western Maryland. She couldn’t have been a day under eighty, and might even have played with God as a child. I have a special place in my heart for old people (perhaps because I plan to be one myself someday), but extremely old people make me nervous. After all, my tiny elevator is not entirely reliable, and the only other way to reach my guest rooms is to climb an impossibly steep stairs. It was just about all Mrs. Fuselburger could do to get down from her truck.

  Fortunately, she was accompanied by two male employees, both of whom appeared to be of Latin American descent. They carried her bags into my tiny lobby, and then set about unloading her Holstein, all without saying a word. I had not been introduced to the men, both of whom managed to avoid eye contact, so you can imagine my confusion.

  “Where will your employees be staying, dear?”

  “I don’t believe that’s your concern.”

  “I’m just curious, dear,” I assured her. “It’s not that I think they’re here illegally, because I don’t—well, maybe I do, but as proprietress of this fine, upstanding establishment, I merely want to ascertain whether or not you plan to have them stay in your room with you.”

  “They most certainly will not be staying with me.”

  “But you see, dear, there are no other rooms available, anywhere in the county.”

  “Miss Yoder, I must insist that you mind your own business.”

  “Well, I never! Actually, I have, but I didn’t like it much. After all, minding our own business is an unnatural act, right up there with dying one’s hair black after the age of sixty.” Oops. That last remark just slipped out, like a bean-salad serenade at a family picnic.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, if the Good Lord had wanted us to mind our own business, he wouldn’t have instructed us to be our brother’s keeper—or innkeeper, for that matter.”

  “You were commenting on my hair.”

  “I was?” In truth, I was. I have never understood the desire of some women to hang on to the hair color of their youth, when their faces have long since moved south to join the rest of their bodies. In my humble—and not yet gray—opinion, dyed hair only accentuates wrinkles.

  “Are you stupid, as well as rude?”

  Now that hiked my hackles. During all those years when I’d believed myself to be as ugly as a stump full of spiders, I’d comforted myself with the fact that I have an IQ well into the triple digits. How dare she ask if I was stupid? As my hackles hiked even further, I could feel my self-esteem plummet to the floor.

  “Miss Yoder, are you just going to stand there like a post, or are you going to show me to my room?”

  I brushed off my bruised ego before taking the high road. “Let’s take the impossibly steep stairs, dear
. But not to worry. Only one person has ever fallen to her death on it, and she was pushed.”

  “What’s wrong with your elevator?”

  “It stopped working about six months ago, about the time that Japanese couple went missing. Funny, shortly after it stopped running, it started making these strange noises. After a week or so the noises stopped, but then there was this terrible odor—well, I’ve been meaning to have it fumigated, but just haven’t gotten around to it. You know how busy we innkeepers are.”

  “The stairs will have to do.”

  “I’m putting you in room four. It has a single bed. Occupancy is one. You’ll be pleased to know that it has a view of both Stucky Ridge and Buffalo Mountain. Although to see the former, you will have to sit on your window ledge and lean out to the left. Of course you may want to tie yourself in first. Just don’t use the rope that’s wrapped around the leg of the bed. Last time it didn’t hold.”

  “Miss Yoder, either you are stark raving mad, or the most delightful person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in the past half century.”

  “I’m nuts, dear. Nertz to Mertz. I guarantee you that after spending a week with me, you’ll run screaming from the inn.”

  “You’re delightful, just delightful. You may call me Gertie, if you wish.”

  “Must I?”

  “We’re going to be best friends, Magdalena, just you wait and see.”

  Seeing as how he is a dear friend of mine, Doc Shafor was never on Melvin Stoltzfus’s short list of friends. When asked if he would like to stay with Gabriel and company across the road, instead of in his somewhat isolated house on the other side of town, the kind old gent immediately agreed. I had no doubt, however, that perusing me had something to do with his decision.

  Doc and Ida Rosen used to have a “thing.” In fact they almost married. Although they are no longer a couple—they claim to hate each other—they are still quite involved, if you get my drift. I think the young people these days call it “benefits without friends.”

  At any rate, Doc, who was my papa’s best friend, has had at least one of his bloodshot eyes on me since the day I became legal in the eyes of the law. To be fair, this interest in me began a respectful length of time after the death of his beloved wife, Belinda. By then, Doc had learned to cook, and his attempts to woo me have always involved food.

  Although I can usually boil water without burning it—I once prepared a delicious meal of fried ice—I have little interest in cooking. For Doc, on the other hand, the preparation of calorie-laden meals has become a passion. Even when he’s expecting to eat alone, he prepares a feast. I used to wonder about all that waste, but then one day, to my shame, I learned that Doc delivers his bountiful leftovers to the homeless shelter over in Bedford.

  Now where was I going with all this? Oh yes. I had just gotten word that my fifth party of guests was canceling—apparently their Holstein was having a nervous breakdown from travel stress—when I saw Doc exit the Rosen house and head my way. I decided to meet him at the end of my long drive. After my encounter with Miss Fuselburger, I needed a breath of fresh air.

  Doc always kisses me on both cheeks and then aims for my lips. I always evade him by snapping my head to one side, thereby making him kiss my ear. Lately he’s come to enjoy this, so this time I dropped my head and made him kiss the crown.

  “Mmm. Your hair smells like Midnight Pleasure.”

  “But I showered since then!”

  “It’s the same perfume my Belinda used.”

  “Oh.” There was no point in informing him that I don’t use fragrances of any kind. “Say, Doc, what brings you to this side of Hertzler Road?”

  “I came to see the cows—if that’s all right.”

  “Of course. After all, the competition was your idea.”

  “Yeah, sorry I couldn’t have been one of the official veterinarians like you asked. But at my age—well, the younger ones need the opportunity to shine.”

  When he’s not pursuing me, Doc is a wonderful friend. Except for the crunching of gravel beneath our feet, we walked in companionable silence up the lane, and then left to the barn. About thirty yards from the barn, we both stopped suddenly and sniffed the air.

  “Now that’s perfume,” we said simultaneously.

  “Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” I said, when we were through laughing.

  “What?”

  “It’s something I picked up from Susannah. When two people say the same thing at the exact same time, the first one to say that phrase gets a free soft drink.”

  “Ah. But you have to agree, Magdalena, few things on this good earth smell better than cow dung.”

  I did agree. Maybe it’s because I was raised on a dairy farm, or maybe it’s in my Swiss genes, but the odor of manure is indeed perfume to my nose. However, let me make it perfectly clear: my attraction to mammal emissions applies only to herbivores, and primarily cattle. Cat and dog poop need not apply.

  Doc was impressed with the trouble I’d gone to in order to see that each group of entries had equal, but separate, accommodations. He was also quite impressed with the entries themselves. At each pen he paused to shake his head in appreciation. “Now that’s a fine animal,” he’d say.

  Indeed, they were all fine animals. No doubt about it. The crème de la crème, pun quite intended. And, at the risk of sounding proud, Doc thought my two girls belonged to a guest. He told me that next year I should dissociate myself from the event and enter one of them—which, of course, I’d already considered. He was particularly taken with Matilda Two’s exceptional udder.

  “You don’t see many that well-endowed,” he said. “How many gallons?”

  “Six.”

  “Wow. Isn’t that a record?”

  “Record’s six point two.”

  “When I was a young shaver—”

  “Shafor shaver—”

  “But just barely shaving then. Anyway, when I was just out of vet school, we were lucky if cows gave half that much.”

  “The breed has evolved—well, not evolved evolved, since evolution doesn’t exist, but—you know, changed.”

  “Magdalena, Magdalena, whatever am I going to do with you? Your apple not only stayed close to the tree, but it’s still firmly attached.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I am merely observing that you choose to ignore scientific evidence so that you can cling to your literal interpretation of some three-thousand-year-old documents that were meant for another people living in another time.” He said it without pausing. Surely it was a remarkable feat for an octogenarian, and would have been quite impossible had he been president.

  “Doc, I’m not going to argue theology with you.”

  “Because you’d lose?”

  “Because you’re wrong, and I’m right.”

  He grinned. “I still say we’d make a mighty fine couple. I’d be the spit, and you’d be the fire. If you ever decide to ditch that young whippersnapper of yours—”

  “It’s never going to happen. But anyway, Doc, you’re impressed with the cows, huh?” Good news can never be repeated too many times.

  “They’re all exceptional, but…” He sucked air sharply through his teeth.

  “But what?”

  “I’ve been thinking about one of them. Something’s not quite right. Do you mind if I have another look?”

  My cow-proud heart sank. “It isn’t one of mine, is it?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Which one is it?”

  Before Doc could answer, I heard a howl call my name.

  5

  Avocado Ice Cream Recipe

  Ingredients:

  3 ripe avocados

  ¾ pint (375 ml) milk

  ½ pint (250 ml) double (heavy) cream

  1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice

  ½ cup granulated sugar

  Take the avocados, peel and seed them then put into a blender with the milk and make a purée. Pour the purée into a mixing bowl, add the sugar, lemon jui
ce, and cream, and beat until creamy. Then transfer the complete mixture into an ice cream maker, and follow the manufacturer’s instructions.

  6

  “Ma-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahm!” Alison howled again.

  I turned to see my pseudo-stepdaughter stomping up the driveway, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her eyes flashing.

  “Later,” I said to Doc. I prayed silently for patience, and if I was not to be given that, then a painless and temporary case of lockjaw. Having delivered up my requests, I braced to face her wrath. (A mother—especially a pseudo-stepmother—doesn’t have to do anything wrong to be wrong.)

  Alison galloped the remaining distance. They were her legs, of course, but disproportionately long like a colt’s. I couldn’t help but marvel at how much she’d grown in the past year.

  “Mom! Where were ya?”

  “Right here. Where did you look?”

  “Nowhere. Didn’t ya see me just come over from across the road?”

  “I saw you coming up the drive. What happened?”

  “She happened, that’s what.”

  “She who? Your Auntie Susannah?”

  “What? Nah, Auntie Susannah’s cool. It’s her I can’t stand.”

  “Cousin Barbara?”

  “Mom!”

  I racked my brain for whoever else might be staying across the road at the family compound. The only other females were the babies—bingo! Toddlers and teenagers don’t always mix, especially when the former get their sticky hands on the latter’s stuff.

  “Which one was it? It wasn’t little Magdalena, was it? Sweetie, they’re only two years—”

  “I’m talking about Grandma Ida! Only she ain’t my real grandma, so I ain’t gonna call her that no more. Even if ya try and make me. You ain’t gonna, are ya?”

  Oh, what music to my sinful ears. Much to my annoyance, Alison had taken to Gabriel’s mother like ticks to a deer. You would have thought that interfering little woman had hung the moon, for crying out loud. Of course it wasn’t Alison’s fault, seeing as how she was starved for affection; so it was clearly Ida’s fault. And how terribly selfish it was for Ida to encourage this behavior, because she already had a child and—