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Authors: Tamar Myers
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mouth. There was nothing to be gained by reminding my sister that she had chosen to spend the rest of her life with a loser. Anyway, I had done the same thing. The only difference was that my loser has yet to kill anyone. Of course I’d married an extremely handsome man, not a giant praying man-HELL HATH NO CURRY
57
tis. And furthermore, everyone in Hernia had thought the world of Aaron Miller, whereas only Zelda Root, my half sister, and her merry band of Melvinites thought well of Melvin. Even his mother didn’t have such a hot opinion of him.
Susannah reached for one of my large, fluffy towels. They are one of the few luxuries I indulge in. (I thoughtfully provide my guests with the rough, cheap variety; yet another way for them to exfoliate.)
“You’re right,” she said.
“ Excuse me?”
“I was an idiot. A fool. What am I going to do, Mags? No one in their right mind would marry me now.”
“That’s because you’re still married.”
“Besides that. You know what I mean.”
“There is no ’besides that.’ Don’t you think that divorcing the murdering mantis would be a place to start?”
“I thought you were against divorce.”
“I am—in theory. In practice, sometimes it’s the only option.
That said, I do think divorce is way overrated. Believe me, dear, it’s not gay marriage that is going to ruin the institution; it’s divorce, and contributing to that, the ease with which one can get married in this country. Consider the fact that one has to be tested in order to get a driver’s license, but not to get a husband license.
Believe me, husbands are a lot harder to handle than cars.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Mags. I agree with everything you say.”
“You do ?”
She nodded, flinging clusters of bubbles dangerously near my eyes. “Like I said, I’m a fool. Because of that, I’m ruined.”
There is nothing more heartbreaking than having a worthy opponent capitulate because of a broken heart. I wanted to hug Susannah, but we can barely do that while wearing clothes. I would try to compensate with a platitude.
“Just think of poor Priscilla Livingood. Now, there is a woman 58 Tamar
Myers
who won’t be able to hold her head high in Hernia much longer.
She was engaged to the male version of a slut—wait just one ding-dang minute. How come there isn’t a word for the male version of a slut?”
“There’s lothario .”
Frankly, I was surprised Susannah knew the word. “Nope.
Lothario doesn’t have the same moral connotation. Now, where was I?”
“You’d just called Cornelius a slut. You must have found out about Thelma Unruh.”
“Huh?”
“I told Thelma she was kidding herself, but you know those Unruhs; they’re more hardheaded than us Yoders.”
Never complain, never explain, a wise woman once said. And really, when it came to push versus shove, what did it really matter how much I knew, versus how much I was about to know?
Withholding information isn’t exactly a lie, is it?
“Poor, poor, Thelma,” I said,
“She’s a natural blonde, you know. You’ve got to watch those natural blondes; they’re sharper than you think. It’s the brunettes who dye their hair and try to pass themselves off as blond—
they’re the ones missing a few marbles. Like, please, who do they think they’re kidding with those dark roots and sallow complex-ions? Besides, their boyfriends will find out soon enough, when the cups don’t match the saucers.”
“What does dying one’s hair have to do with dishes?”
My sister rolled her eyes. “The drapes won’t match the rug.”
My brain is dense, not impermeable. “Susannah! How crude.”
“I’m not being crude, merely stating a fact. Anyway, like I said, it’s the natural blondes you have to look out for. Cool as cucumbers, some of them. I told Thelma she was too smart to be messing around with Cornelius, but do you know what she told me?”
“Spit it out!” I said, spitting out soapy water.
HELL
57
tis. And furthermore, everyone in Hernia had thought the world of Aaron Miller, whereas only Zelda Root, my half sister, and her merry band of Melvinites thought well of Melvin. Even his mother didn’t have such a hot opinion of him.
Susannah reached for one of my large, fluffy towels. They are one of the few luxuries I indulge in. (I thoughtfully provide my guests with the rough, cheap variety; yet another way for them to exfoliate.)
“You’re right,” she said.
“ Excuse me?”
“I was an idiot. A fool. What am I going to do, Mags? No one in their right mind would marry me now.”
“That’s because you’re still married.”
“Besides that. You know what I mean.”
“There is no ’besides that.’ Don’t you think that divorcing the murdering mantis would be a place to start?”
“I thought you were against divorce.”
“I am—in theory. In practice, sometimes it’s the only option.
That said, I do think divorce is way overrated. Believe me, dear, it’s not gay marriage that is going to ruin the institution; it’s divorce, and contributing to that, the ease with which one can get married in this country. Consider the fact that one has to be tested in order to get a driver’s license, but not to get a husband license.
Believe me, husbands are a lot harder to handle than cars.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Mags. I agree with everything you say.”
“You do ?”
She nodded, flinging clusters of bubbles dangerously near my eyes. “Like I said, I’m a fool. Because of that, I’m ruined.”
There is nothing more heartbreaking than having a worthy opponent capitulate because of a broken heart. I wanted to hug Susannah, but we can barely do that while wearing clothes. I would try to compensate with a platitude.
“Just think of poor Priscilla Livingood. Now, there is a woman 58 Tamar
Myers
who won’t be able to hold her head high in Hernia much longer.
She was engaged to the male version of a slut—wait just one ding-dang minute. How come there isn’t a word for the male version of a slut?”
“There’s lothario .”
Frankly, I was surprised Susannah knew the word. “Nope.
Lothario doesn’t have the same moral connotation. Now, where was I?”
“You’d just called Cornelius a slut. You must have found out about Thelma Unruh.”
“Huh?”
“I told Thelma she was kidding herself, but you know those Unruhs; they’re more hardheaded than us Yoders.”
Never complain, never explain, a wise woman once said. And really, when it came to push versus shove, what did it really matter how much I knew, versus how much I was about to know?
Withholding information isn’t exactly a lie, is it?
“Poor, poor, Thelma,” I said,
“She’s a natural blonde, you know. You’ve got to watch those natural blondes; they’re sharper than you think. It’s the brunettes who dye their hair and try to pass themselves off as blond—
they’re the ones missing a few marbles. Like, please, who do they think they’re kidding with those dark roots and sallow complex-ions? Besides, their boyfriends will find out soon enough, when the cups don’t match the saucers.”
“What does dying one’s hair have to do with dishes?”
My sister rolled her eyes. “The drapes won’t match the rug.”
My brain is dense, not impermeable. “Susannah! How crude.”
“I’m not being crude, merely stating a fact. Anyway, like I said, it’s the natural blondes you have to look out for. Cool as cucumbers, some of them. I told Thelma she was too smart to be messing around with Cornelius, but do you know what she told me?”
“Spit it out!” I said, spitting out soapy water.
HELL
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