The Death of Pie (11 page)

Meanwhile, Wanda, my second-best friend, tossed her ginormous glob of gum from tonsil to tonsil as if she had a pair of elfin basketball players living in her throat. Frankly, her silence hurt at a time like that. What good is a second-best friend if she can't swoop in and clean up one's messes? I used to do it for my slovenly, slutty sister Susannah all the time without being prompted. I did it because that's what sisters do – that and scream at each other, even if they are demure and quiet on the outside.

Finally
, Wanda deigned to speak. ‘Magdalena,' she said, ‘how could you be so cruel to poor, sweet Agnes?'

‘
What?
'

‘Just look at how you've embarrassed her, and the dear woman doesn't have a brain in her head. How is she going to fight back?'

‘Fight back? Against
what
?'

‘Your insults, Magdalena,' Wanda said, ‘that's what.'

‘But I didn't say anything insulting. I was just—'

‘Doing your duty,
jah
?' Wanda said, faking a German accent. ‘You are my best friend, Magdalena, but at times like now you make me sick.'

‘I don't want to be your
best
friend,' I wailed. ‘I want to be your second-best friend.'

Wanda shook her head while the gum wad stayed put. ‘No can do, Magdalena. That spot is taken.'

‘By whom?'

‘By Agnes, of course.'

I have often prayed for miracles, none of which have happened. Trust me, the Good Lord has showered upon me numerous gifts for which I would never have dared to ask. But as in the Hans Christian Anderson fairytale of the mermaid who gave up her tongue for a pair of legs, my biggest blessings came at a great cost.

While I was blessed with the most handsome husband in the entire world, the Babester and his beloved ‘Ma' were a package deal. And yes, I am a very wealthy woman, but I earned my money by turning the family farm into a bed and breakfast for the über rich – those folks who think that they can actually buy a cultural experience rather than experience a culture. Tragically, the farm was not mine to transform in this way until
after
my parents died in a vehicle crash in the Allegheny Tunnel, squashed as they were between a tanker truck carrying milk and another truck containing a load of state-of-the-art running shoes.

So then, when dear, sweet Agnes turned her normal shade of pink and her lips momentarily resumed their miniature perfect bow shape, even though I was praying for a miracle I certainly didn't expect one. Even our gum-heaving hostess, Wanda, must not have, because she ducked the second Agnes began to speak.

‘Magdalena, you might be the stricter sort of Mennonite, but I am a Mennonite as well. What's more important is that I believe that, as Jesus taught us, we should forgive seven times seventy. So I forgive you for all your manifold sins past and present.'

‘You can't!' Wanda cried. At this the wad of gum catapulted from her mouth and landed, smack, dab on the head of an enormous housefly just as it landed on the table in front of us. The masticated matter pinned the unfortunate creature to the table in such a manner that, although it could not fly, it could spin in tight circles whilst buzzing annoyingly. If you ask me, it was the perfect metaphor for Wanda.

‘But I can!' Agnes said. To my everlasting gratitude, she squeezed out of her side of the booth and hoisted herself to her feet. ‘Come on, Magdalena. We don't need to eat here. I've suddenly lost my appetite for pecan waffles and smoked Virginia ham.'

‘But you didn't order pecan waffles and smoked Virginia ham!' Wanda wailed, sounding disconcertingly like me. ‘I don't even serve them. Where do you think you are – Cracker Barrel?'

No sooner did she say that than a buzzer attached to her apron sounded, informing us that our correct order of eggs, pancakes, warm maple syrup and sizzling bacon was ready for pickup. Pavlov's dogs had nothing over Agnes and me, who resumed sitting so quickly that our butts hit the benches almost before they left, making the collider in Switzerland redundant.

‘Wanda, be a dear,' I said, ‘and clean up that atrocious mess on the table. Then disinfect the table – in a spritely manner, of course – before you make haste to retrieve our orders. Cold eggs anywhere are disgusting, but when your pancakes get cold they're like hockey pucks. Just remember, however, that I am a wealthy woman who tips generously for services rendered.'

That last bit was quite true. While I am famous for pinching a penny until it screams, I do reward service people handsomely if they at least attempt to serve in a competent manner. The same holds true for managers who act as their own servers – even if they are old friends with hedgerow eyebrows and potentially hazardous hairdos.

Wanda's glare burned hot enough to keep the Sausage Barn's coffee at just the right temperature all through a delicious lunch. The pancakes were perfect. The bacon was the best that it could be, and even the eggs were exemplary. I was true to my word, and Wanda received such a fat tip that she was tongue-tied when we departed, and hence unable to invite herself along to the next bit of trouble I was about to find myself in.

I
n the narrow strip of farmland between Buffalo Mountain and Stucky Ridge lies Doc Shafer's farm. He too is some sort of multiple cousin – distant enough that legally we could wed, but on paper the math would have us being closer than siblings, despite the fact that Doc is old enough to be my father. While I hate to give her any credit, that unscrupulous author, Ramat Sreym, did pen something clever when she wrote: ‘Oh what a tangled web they weave, when Amish-Mennonites conceive!' Indeed, this is true. The lines on my family tree crisscross over each other in a good number of places, so much so that I have had to use bits of brightly-colored embroidered floss to represent the various links between the branches.

Doc used to be a veterinarian – back in the days when Noah had his ark. He still goes by the title ‘Doc' and keeps a few acres of pasture turned over to a lone Jersey cow named Latte and her companion, a black billy goat he calls Ramses. Until a few months ago he had an elderly hound named Old Blue who used to meet me at the top of the long gravel lane, and which, Doc claimed, could smell me coming a half-hour ahead of my arrival. That was a nonsense claim since I was often spontaneous and occasionally showered.

On this particular day it gladdened my heart to find Doc outside tending to a pot of chrysanthemums. When he saw the cruiser approaching with me in it he stood and waved, grinning like any old goat might. When he ascertained that I had Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, Agnes, in tow, the smile morphed into something only a ‘Doc-watcher' might call a grimace. But Doc is ever the gentleman, and he would never hurt a lady's feelings. Besides, he is just as closely related to Agnes as he is to me, maybe even closer. The rumour that Doc and Agnes are one and the same person is just that: a rumour. Only a disturbed woman with an overactive imagination, and an impossible mother-in-law, could ever think up such a lame story.

Now where was I? Oh, yes – the old man was delighted to see me, and I him. Doc dropped his garden scissors and bottle of green insecticide, and threw his not-so-withered arms around me. When he was a veterinarian, Doc could shoe a horse,
and
throw a horse around with their shoes, so he's still pretty ripped for an old geezer. If you closed your eyes tightly you might even think that you were being hugged by a man in his forties, not an octogenarian. Doc even smells as if he's hung on to a bit of testosterone. Yes, I know, nowadays one can get a prescription from a medical doctor and roll the stuff under one's armpits like a deodorant, but Doc is a big believer in homemade remedies. If I were a betting woman, which again, I am not, I would wager that Doc and his billy goat, Ramses, smell rather much alike.

I was not surprised when the first words Doc said were, ‘Ladies, you're just in time for dessert!' He didn't even mention Hernia's cruiser, but then, why should he? In recent years, it seemed, I'd spent more time in it than out.

Of course, we had just eaten pancakes soaked in syrup, but there isn't a Mennonite alive who will turn down dessert. Unlike Roman Catholics, we Mennonites never preached about the Seven Deadly Sins. When I was growing up the word gluttony sounded like a province somewhere near Tuscany. In those days, when Spandex was not yet invented but girdles were de rigueur, we ate until it hurt, and then we ate some more. We were even very fond of a dessert called Girdle Buster Pie.

‘What are you serving?' Agnes said. The woman believes in staying informed.

‘Girdle Buster Pie,' Doc said.

‘Lead the way, old man,' I said.

Seeing as how the three of us were inbred Mennonites, we wasted no further time with unnecessary pleasantries like hugs, kisses or handshakes. Those are all ways of spreading diseases and, if you ask me, they should no longer be practised in casual situations.

As for the custom of shaking hands with someone just before a meal, or holding hands during grace, those customs should be outlawed, I tell you! Outlawed! The Good Lord gave us the sense to identify the cold virus and know that it is spread via hands, and then we turn around and mock him by spreading the virus while we thank God for our food? For shame!

‘Earth to Magdalena,' Doc said. ‘You almost tripped going up the top step.'

‘Forgive me, Doc,' I said. ‘I was off on another rampage.'

‘That's why we love you,' he said with a chuckle.

‘Well,' I said, ‘you might not be singing the same tune when you hear why it is we've come.'

Doc opened the door with a flourish and ushered us in. His dear wife, Emma, had passed away eighteen years ago, but you wouldn't know it. The house is as neat as a pin. There is not a speck of dust – anywhere! Believe me; I checked using the hem of my white cotton slip when Doc went to get our desserts. And the overstuffed chairs still have doilies pinned to the backs and armrests. What man would do that, unless he was still in mourning for his wife and didn't want to change the look of things?

On the other hand, Doc is as randy as an old goat – perhaps because of the goat. Incidentally, Ramses is exceedingly randy: I have observed that billy attempting to do things with the Jersey cow that are certainly against the laws of nature! As for Doc's inclinations, about five years after his beloved Emma's passing, he started putting the moves on me.
Moi!
His cousin: his many-times-over-practically-himself cousin! True, I was in my late thirties then, the time in a woman's life when she is at her most desirable. At that age both her body, and brain, are in full bloom.

At any rate, when Doc returned with slabs – not slices – of pie, and mountains – not scoops – of vanilla ice cream, and we'd taken a few bites, raved and had a chance to put our sweets temporarily aside on wooden trays, I went fishing. Please do not think I am being mean, for I only report the facts: Agnes did not set her dessert even temporarily aside.

‘Doc, dear,' I said, ‘you are, without a doubt, the most intuitive man in all of Hernia.'

‘Yup. Been that way for eighty-four years since May.'

‘Wow,' Agnes said, her mouth full of pie, ‘you don't look a day over eighty-three.'

Doc slapped his knee with delight. ‘You hear that, Magdalena? Finally, your wit has some competition!'

Agnes swallowed, licked her finger and then ran it around her plate, collecting crumbs. ‘On second thought, Doc,' she said, ‘were you calling me a halfwit?'

Doc roared with laughter. ‘This one's a corker.'

‘Then maybe she should put a cork in it,' I said, perhaps a mite unkindly.

‘Tsk, tsk,' said Doc. ‘That sort of behaviour is beneath you, Magdalena.'

‘Is it?' Well, yes, of course it was, but I was feeling ignored and rightly so.
I
was Doc's special friend; it was
me
who'd had to fend off his advances all these years, thanks to the goat juice he injected in himself. There I was, all decked out in what could pass for a policewoman's uniform – an outfit of authority – and he couldn't even pretend to flirt with me first.

‘You know that it is,' Doc said. ‘Now be a good girl and tell an old man why he should receive a delightful surprise after lunch when all his contemporaries are either dead or sleeping.'

‘Or playing golf,' Agnes said. ‘Have you ever been to Florida, Doc? I hear that you can play golf all year round down there.'

‘Nah,' Doc said. ‘Too many widows down there. I reckon the competition would be fierce. Besides, I don't much care for golf. Badminton – now that's a gentleman's game.'

‘Ooh, I just love badminton,' Agnes squealed. What a falsehood. I knew for a fact that Agnes hadn't played the game since high school, which was over three decades ago. On the flip side, so to speak, I had just recently caught a glimpse of her naked uncles playing badminton, and the urge to poke out my mind's eye had yet to abate. I still shuddered to think where I'd seen that shuttlecock land.

Doc smiled warmly at Agnes – perhaps too warmly. He might even have leered.

‘Terrific,' he said. ‘There is nothing like a good workout. Shall we make it your place or mine?'

I stood and waved my arms like the person who guides the jets in and out of the gates at the airport in Pittsburgh. ‘Hold it right there, you loathsome, lecherous lothario!'

‘Magdalena, I'm shocked,' Agnes said. ‘I can't believe you said such ugly things to an elderly gentleman like Doc Shafor.'

‘You take that back, young lady,' Doc said with a wink.

‘Yeah, take it back and apologize,' Agnes said.

‘He's speaking to you, dear,' I said.

‘
What?
' Agnes said.

‘You just offended this sweet-talking senior swain who, as you'll recall, did the mattress mambo with the mother-in-law from you-know-where.'