Tamar Myers: Butter Safe Than Sorry

“I’d say that pretty much covers it.”

“Then you’re absolutely right.”

Agnes nodded. “You’re kind of like a pair of Teutonic plates, Magdalena; I know that they’re going to be the catalyst for an earth-shattering event sometime in the near future, but there’s just no stopping them. The same thing applies to you.”

“That’s just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said.”

“So, you’ve agreed to take me along with you on your next wild adventure?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Come on, Magdalena, you know that’s why you’re here; you didn’t drive all the way out to my neck of the woods for stale pastries and scintillating conversation. Freni makes the best cinnamon rolls in the world and we could have chatted over the phone. No, you planned to recruit me as your sidekick.”

I feigned surprise. Feigning, by the way, is not nearly as bad as lying. I defy anyone to find that word in their King James Version of the Holy Bible. Its absence is proof that it was not important enough to be considered a sin.

“Oh my,” I said. “You don’t think that position is still open, do you?”

“But, Magdalena, I’m your BFF.”

“My what?”

“Best friend forever? Best female friend? Whatever. I’m both, aren’t I? And anyway, I’m always your sidekick.”

“Only when Wanda Hemphopple isn’t.”

“Please, Mags.”

Feigning reluctant sighs comes easy to anyone who has ever had a mother. “All right, but you have to follow my lead. No thinking for yourself.”

“I promise.”

Rather pleased with my performance, I stood up. “Got any more coffee?”

“There’s some in the kitchen.”

I went to refill my cup but was back a few seconds later. “What’s up with your uncle?”

“Which one?”

Agnes’s two uncles live next door. Both men are in their seventies, and both are nudists, even when the weather is cool, like it was that morning. Yet despite the low temperature, one of the old coots was keeping a remarkably high profile-so to speak.

“I didn’t look at his face, dear. He’s the one who’s outside the kitchen window planting pansies.”

“You must mean Uncle Willard. You know that commercial that says if it lasts more than four hours, then you should see a doctor? That’s right. You don’t watch TV. Anyway, that’s what he took, and it lasted more than that, so I drove him to the doctor-twice, as a matter of fact-and his blood pressure, heart, everything checks out fine.”

“Ah, I’m not sure you’re getting my drift. This would appear to be a hydraulics problem.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You mean they have pills for that?”

“ Magdalena, have you been living in a cave somewhere?”

“That’s a very rude thing to say, Agnes. You know that I don’t read secular magazines either. It takes a lot of willpower in this day and age to keep a mind as narrow as mine, and I would appreciate a compliment now and then.” I lowered my voice to BFCL-hereafter known as “best friend confidential level” before continuing. “Besides, you may extrapolate from my question that my Dearly Beloved doesn’t require the benefits of modern science to replicate the Empire State Building.”

Agnes giggled into her cup and turned seven shades of red. “Ooh, Magdalena, you’re so wicked.”

I considered my next question carefully. “How long has it been?”

“Two weeks.”

I gasped as a very important detail occurred to me. “But why would he take the pills? He isn’t even married!”

“There you go, being Miss Judgmental again. My uncle’s reason for taking the pills is none of your beeswax.”

“Why, I never! Just for that you may not be my sidekick-no matter how much you beg.”

“That’s fine with me.”

I waggled a finger at her, à la Bill Clinton. “I mean it.”

“So do I.”

“Somebody else is going to get all the glory.”

“They’ll also have to put up with you.”

That did it. I was out of there like fleas on a freshly lathered dog. Agnes Miller had a few things to learn about friendship and loyalty; too bad that I didn’t have the time to set her straight just then. At least my soaring blood pressure could be put to good use at my next stop of the day.

It is twelve miles and half a century from Hernia to Bedford. Even Hernia’s non-Amish population lags behind the rest of country in its mores and outlook, and somehow this spiritual quality is manifested in the physical. The end result is that one actually can feel the culture shock when passing the sign that says Welcome to Bedford . If I may speak frankly, it may as well say Welcome to Sodom and Gomorrah.

As I did every time I ventured into this den of iniquity, I prayed for strength and patience (not the strongest of my virtues). The latter is my least-answered prayer. I haven’t the foggiest what it feels like to have it answered; I certainly didn’t feel any different that day. With the economy still deep in the loo, I didn’t have to worry about finding a parking space at my bank; neither did I have to wait to speak to the bank manager himself.

Mr. Pernicious Yoder III was at first very gracious and even offered me a Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee.

“Cream and sugar?” I asked hopefully.

“I have packaged whitener that tastes like chalk and a pink sweetener with a bitter aftertaste.”

“Ix-nay on ink-pay, but I always carry some extra packets of Splenda in my purse. Would you like a couple?”

His nose literally wrinkled. It was like watching an albino inchworm trying to get away from itself.

“Uh-no, thanks.”

“They haven’t been opened, dear. Besides, I gave my purse a thorough cleaning since the hamster died.”

“It died in your purse?”

“Heavens no! But that’s where my son-he’s only four-put it-it was his, you know-so that I would find it and make it better. Unfortunately, that was just before he and his dad were going off to spend the weekend with some friends on a male-only camping trip. The little tyke didn’t know it was dead-he’s not very clear on that subject yet-and that just so happened to be the weekend I decided to stay home and put up my tootsies. So you see I had no need for a pocketbook.”

“Please, might we change the subject?”

“Certainly.” I flashed him a much-practiced winning smile. “Cousin Yoder-”

Persnickety Pernicious held up a manicured hand. “I must insist that you address me as Mr. Yoder, as we have no proven bonds of kinship.”

“Au contraire. I have done my homework. My adopted father and your father were double-first cousins. My adopted mother was a third cousin once removed to your father and fifth cousins two ways to your mother-just not through the Yoders. My biological father was a fourth cousin twice removed to your father as well as a fifth cousin in another line, and my biological mother showed five cousin relationships six generations back. Ergo, it wouldn’t surprise me if you and I were brother and sister, by at least some arcane system of calculation, somewhere on this globe.”

“Oy vey,” he groaned, revealing yet another possible connection, “you wouldn’t happen to have some aspirin, or other type of headache medicine, in that miniature sarcophagus of yours, would you?”

“But I thought-”

“You have a way of making a man desperate; two minutes with you has given me the mother of all migraines. Indeed, we must be related.”

“Very funny.” I fished around until I found a couple of loose ibuprofen. I picked off a long light brown hair. “This is the best I can do, dear. Although I could give you Sermon Number Thirty-seven-that’s what my sister called it, at any rate-on appropriate premarital sexual behavior. Susannah used to claim that it put her in a coma. You probably wouldn’t feel much pain in a coma.”