“Edith Wharton-wasn’t she like ninety-eight years old when she died?”
“Ninety-three. Still, despite what she said, I don’t think she could have handled an impromptu visit from one of these loonies-Oops, I’m not referring to your uncles, of course.”
“Yes, you are. And you’re absolutely right. We both know that they’re as nutty as a Payday bar, but they’re all I’ve got-except for you.”
“Aw,” I said quite seriously. “I’m touched.”
“I mean it; you are the best friend I’ve ever had. Ever.”
“Thanks, but although I’m touched, I’m not ‘teched.’ I know you’re trying to butter me up, and I can’t promise you that your uncles are going to get off scot-free. In any case, you’re going to need to find a home for them-maybe on a ranch out in Montana where the deer and the antelope play.”
“But it gets cold in Montana; they’ll freeze their little whatsits off.”
“Well, when that happens, their nudity will no longer be so much of an issue. In the meantime, how do we prepare the good citizens of Hernia for an invasion of cellulite and varicose veins-not to mention whatsits of every size and description?”
Agnes is a quick thinker; you have to give her that much. “Who are Hernia’s biggest gossips?”
“Present company excepted?”
“Ha-ha.”
“Well, that would have to be Marlene Reenkle, Catherine Ayebagg, Estelle Waystrohl and Naomi Bakkphat.”
“Good. We call them and tell them that the IRS is on their way to do surprise audits on anyone that they find at home. That should send everyone to their basements. Hopefully we’ll get the nudes rounded up before our terrified citizenry has the nerve to venture back upstairs.”
“Like I keep saying, Agnes, you should have worked for the state department.”
“Oh, I spotted one of the uncles!” She hung up.
The invasion of unfettered flesh might have been far more time-consuming for me, and traumatic for most Herniaites, had it not been Fred and Alice Rosenthal. The couple are retirees, refugees from the Big Apple, who’ve sought out small-town living because of our clean air and quaint old- fashioned ways. Imagine their surprise to look up from their New York Times and spot a horde of pasty white bodies running down the road in their direction, whoosits and whatsits flopping joyously, just as freely as the ears on a cocker spaniel.
But instead of being scandalized, the Rosenthals went out on their porch, where they commenced laughing. And laughing. And laughing. By the time I got there, poor Fred had practically laughed himself sick, and Alice, bless her heart, found that she needed to change her designer blue jeans.
The nude missionaries, however, were not amused. The laughing duo offended them so much that they stopped in their tracks to argue, the whole bunch of them. Then along came a buggy, driven by Amish teenagers. The occupants hooted and jeered at the escapees with the Haight- Ashbury frame of mind. One by one the nudists hung their heads in shame, and that was how another cult bit the dust.
It wasn’t until I got home and saw the ship’s clock on the parlor mantel that I realized just how time- consuming it was to have the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy directly across the road from the PennDutch Inn. If it wasn’t nude nuns, then it was plumbing issues-either Ida’s own or her establishment’s-but there was always something coming along that demanded the full attention of either Gabriel or myself.
I slumped onto a hard, unforgiving Victorian chair. Following my great-granny Yoder’s example, I kept the furniture in my sitting room as uncomfortable as I could and still have it appear cozy. Great-Granny believed that a body should rest only after death; I merely see the value in keeping guests from congregating. Heaven forefend they should collect in numbers and conduct a full-scale revolt over some imagined mistreatment at my hand.
At any rate, I was so upset by that time, I didn’t see Olivia Zambezi enter the room from the other direction. In my defense I shall hasten to explain that the woman favored pastel dresses that hung nearly to the floor. Today it was pale gray, with darker gray crosshatches. Her hair was steel gray and, frankly, so was her complexion. While I’m hardly a proponent of makeup, if one is going to wear it, one should at least pick a flattering tone, shouldn’t one? In short, Mrs. Zambezi resembled the battleships I’d once seen while on a cruise of Norfolk Harbor more than she did a flesh-and-blood woman her age.
Not that I’m a fashion icon, to be sure. However, one can never go wrong with a modestly cut navy blue broadcloth dress, and one’s hair-it is after all, a woman’s crowning glory-braided and then swept securely into a bun, over which is pinned a white organza prayer cap. This simple way of dressing flatters every body type, and women of every walk of life and religious persuasion could do worse than adopt it as their daily uniform.
Now where was I? Oh yes, in my understandably self-absorbed state of mind, I got up from my chair and ran smack into Olivia Zambezi with enough force to knock Arnold Schwarzenegger on his keester.
“Dang you, Yoder,” she swore in a shockingly deep voice.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Zambezi.” I would have asked her if she was all right, but I didn’t want to plant any suggestions in that old gray head.
And speaking of her old gray head, I seemed to have knocked it a bit askew. That is to say, her noggin was no longer sitting directly on top of its pedestal-No wait, silly me-of course! Olivia Zambezi wore a wig, and I had knocked the dang thing practically off her head. Suddenly she no longer resembled Olivia from New Jersey at all. Still, she was very, very familiar.
But what to do? What to do? The poor woman seemed entirely oblivious to the hair- raising situation at hand. Perhaps her face stung too much from slamming into mine. Should I say something to her, or just reach out and give the rug a tug-taking care not to burn my hand on her whiskers. Her whiskers! Land o’ Goshen! Olivia Zambezi was sporting five o’clock shadow, and here it was only six minutes past three-give or take a minute.
I’ve known some hirsute women in my time-Gloria Crab-tree comes to mind-but none quite as hairy as the one I beheld. Then again, her face was missing a swath of pancake makeup an inch thick where mine had swiped it, which meant that half of me undoubtedly resembled a Kabuki performer. I pulled the collar of my shirtdress out to where I could see it.
“Oh Fudgsicles,” I cried. “Now see what you’ve done!”
“Me?” Olivia boomed. “Yoder, it was you who ran into me.”
It was the way “she” said Yoder that tipped me off. The person masquerading as Olivia Zambezi managed to make my maiden name sound like a curse. Factor in her large feet, large hands, odd stance, and eyes like those of a lobster on steroids, and even a heavily sedated zombie would be able to tell that I was face- to-face with none other than the maniacal Melvin Stoltzfus.