As the World Churns (4 page)

    I’d been feeling lightheaded a lot the past week, so I was not totally surprised to see
two
Mr. Dorfmans exit the truck cab, one from either side. Of course I knew that double vision should not be taken lightly, and I fully intended to hie myself off to a doctor as soon as the competition was over and I’d taken care of my personal problem-i.e., gotten her accepted as a team member on a yearlong expedition to Antarctica. In the meantime, I had a business to run.

    “Welcome to the PennDutch Inn,” I called out, ever the mistress of false gaiety.

    “Howdy. I’m Harry Dorfman.” A beefy man with very little neck and flyaway eyebrows proffered a paw as coarse as an artichoke.

    “And I’m Harmon,” said another beefy man with very little neck and flyaway eyebrows, but whose hand felt like a pineapple.

    My sigh of relief ruffled both sets of eyebrows. “Your reservation just said ‘the Dorfmans.’ I was expecting a married couple, not identical twins. Or is one of you a clone?”

    Harry laughed. “Yeah, we’re about as identical as twins can get. Even our wives can’t tell us apart.”

    “Except for one thing,” Harmon said. “On that score we ain’t identical.”

    “Excuse me?”

    “Harry has him a birthmark in the shape of Uzbekistan on his left thigh, and I ain’t married.”

    At least that is what I thought he said. However, my ears were ringing, the world seemed to be closing in on me, and I felt like throwing up. Harmon Dorfman might have said anything.

    “Are you all right, ma’am?”

    “What?”

    “You look like you’re about to pass out,” one of the twins said. I could barely see their
faces,
much less focus on their lips, so identifying the identical speaker was impossible.

    “You better sit down, ma’am,” the other said.

    “Don’t be silly, dears. I’m fine as frog-” I teetered. I tottered. I did everything but topple. Sure enough, a minute or two later I was feeling fine again, just not as fine as amphibian hair. I attempted a smile. “You see?”

    “Miss Yoder,” Harry said, “I’m going to call your doctor.”

    “You most certainly are not.”

    “But you’re obviously not well.”

    “Well, shmell-” Another truck towing a trailer was about to pull into my drive. “I’ll be fine. I promise. Right now I suggest that one of you run ahead and reserve the stall of your choice, and the paddock that you like best. I’m assigning them on a first-come-first-served basis.”

    The nature of competition being what it is, both men made a beeline for the barn.

    I was feeling much better by the time the next couple finally presented themselves for introduction. The Pearlmutters had obviously been having some sort of disagreement, and had remained in the cab of their truck while attempting to wrap things up. Eventually, reconciliation gave way to embarrassment, but when I shook hands with them I could smell the lingering scent of anger.

    The Pearlmutters drove an expensive new truck and their livestock trailer was top-of-the-line. Jane Pearlmutter, however, was dressed in clothes that would have been rejected by every Goodwill store in the nation-excepting one in eastern
Alabama
. Her stringy, dishwater blond hair was pulled back from her face and held in place by a pair of brown plastic barrettes. Her blotchy pink skin was devoid of foundation, her pale blue eyes unadorned by mascara, and her thin lips the color of boiled liver. I live amongst plain people, and am plain myself, but one has to really work to look this bad. Based on these rather generous observations, I deduced that either she was exceptionally devout and had taken vows of both poverty and homeliness, or else was so wealthy that she could afford to have no pretensions whatsoever. Then I remembered that her tall, dark, and handsome husband, Dick, was a retired stockbroker, which answered that question for me.

    “Welcome to the PennDutch,” I said warily.

    “I’m Dick,” he said. “And this is my wife, Jane. We’re here for the first annual Hernia Holstein Competition. Is this the right place?”

    “Indeed it is. I’m Magdalena Portulaca Yoder, your hostess with the mostess, except that today it’s closer to leastess due to unforeseen circumstances. But one thing I am
not
, is listless, so not to worry, you will have
the bestest
stay this side of the Poconos.”

    “Are you sure?” Jane asked.

    “Forsooth, I tell the truth. Of course, I can’t give you a written guarantee that you’ll enjoy your stay, but for only one hundred dollars more a day-”

    “No. What I mean is, are you sure that you’re Magdalena Yoder?”

    
“Pretty sure.
Although Papa used to joke that I was a petunia he found in the onion patch. But of course if that was true, then my parents would have named me Magdalena
Petunia
Yoder, and not Portulaca.”

    “Honey,” Jane whispered, “the brochure said she was Mennonite. This woman is anything but.”

    Dick Pearlmutter, who was dressed in expensive togs and had neatly combed hair, gave me the quick once-over. “Well, she is awfully pretty.”

    “Not only that, but she’s not dressed like that woman on the brochure.”

    Just a year ago I would have taken offense at the word
pretty
, believing that it had been uttered with utmost sarcasm. Then one day I ran into an old classmate of mine who’d become a plastic surgeon. To make a long story slightly shorter, I learned that for nearly half a century I’d been suffering from body dysmorphic syndrome. The ugly duckling I’d thought I
was,
had long since turned into a gorgeous swan-minus the feathers, of course.
And the beak.
And at least one of the webbed feet.

    I cocked my head, which really does reside at the end of a long, graceful neck. “The woman in the brochure is Amish. She’s my cook, Freni. And indeed, dears, I am a Mennonite, born and bred. Well, not bred like a dairy cow-I certainly haven’t produced any calves-but you know what I mean.”

    Plain Jane had the chutzpah to circle me, like I was a statue in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. “Where’s your costume?” she demanded.

    
“My
costume
?
Halloween is still many months away. But if by costume you mean clothing that identifies me as a Mennonite, take another gander. Observe that my broadcloth dress extends below my knees and that it has sleeves which are long enough to hide unsightly underarm flab-not that I have any, mind you. A quick glance should confirm that my bosom-as fair as any fawn King Solomon ever laid eyes on-is appropriately covered. Then gaze longingly at my lovely size eleven feet, and see that they are sensibly shod in sturdy black brogans, which were machine-made from second-rate leather somewhere on the subcontinent. Now lift up your heads, O ye gates-I mean, O ye Pearlmutters-and appreciate the work that went into my two braids, which wrap around the back of my head like a pair of coiled garter snakes, although perhaps my white organza prayer cap obscures them somewhat. That said
,
I must impress on you that only a
small
number of Mennonites still dress the way I do.
The vast majority dress like everyone else.
Capiche?”

    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.

    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.”