As the World Churns (9 page)
“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 sturdy 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 vagina 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 multitude 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 fashioned. 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 sturdy Christian underwear, he would have killed me too. Every day I thank God for Sears and JCPenney. If I’d been wearing something skimpy from
“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 butter 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 scrapple 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
sturdy 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?”
“No, I’m not all right! Is Susannah my sister, or is she not?”
“Yah, of course.”
“Then what’s this blooming desert stuff? Honestly, Freni, you speak in riddles every bit as much as I do.”
Freni removed her grease- and flour-covered glasses. Believe it or not, without them she could see even less, which was no doubt her intention. That way my quivering chin and tear-filled eyes became a meaningless blur.
“Your mama and papa loved you very much. They could not have loved more the fruit of their loom.”
“That would be ‘loins,’ dear. But please, continue.”
“Every day, they thank God for you in their prayers. Then one day, when your mama thinks the change of life has come, she goes to see the doctor. He tells her she is to have a baby. At first she cannot believe it; at her age, it is not possible. But when the day comes that she must accept the truth, she becomes historical.”
“You mean hysterical?”
“That is what I said. So I ask her why she cries, and she says because now she is afraid that with a new baby, she will love her little Magdalena less. She says that you”-Freni nodded in my general direction-”meant more to her than anything in the world.
More than your papa.
Ach, maybe even more than God.”
I gasped. “She didn’t!”
“Such a terrible thing to say, yah?
But for her, it is the truth, because she loves you so much. Then when Susannah is born, she gets this postmodern depression that everyone is talking about. One day she confides in my ears-you must promise never to tell anyone what she confides.”
“I promise!”
“
No
one.
Ever
.
Not even
your
Gabester.”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“She wishes to drown Susannah in Miller’s Pond. Like a kitten, she says.”
I clapped my hands to my ears in horror. “I can’t believe this!”
“I could not believe either. I ask Mose to hitch the horse to the Sunday buggy so that we could take her to see the pastor of your church. At that time, it was Reverend Amstutz-a very kind man, but maybe not so good with people.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was the Devil putting such ideas in her head. He tells us to pray. So we pray-everyone in Hernia prays, I think- but the Devil does not leave your mama, and I must stay with her every second, even though by then I have my little Jonathan to care for, because she thinks always of the pond.”
I was on the edge of my distressed chair. “What about Papa?”
“Ach, a good man too. But maybe not so-Magdalena, this I do not know how to say.”
“Try Dutch,” I said, referring to the German dialect that is the first language of most Amish.
“No, it is not the words, but what they say.”
“You mean you have something to tell me about Papa that I won’t want to hear? Give me a break, Freni. Please. What did he do, go off and father six more children?”
“Ach!
Look how you talk. Your papa did not think so well in this stressful time. That is why he went to Cleveland.”
“Cleveland?”
“To visit his aunt.”