The Death of Pie by Tamar Myers Page A

minister even make some joke about it, like you being the most famous person in the congregation?’
    Agnes grew shockingly, inhumanly red. I knew then that she was either going to self-combust with anger at me for reminding her of the horrible humiliation which Hernia had seemed more than happy to heap upon her, or else dissolve into a briny sea of tears.
    â€˜Of course, your minister was wrong to say anything ,’ I said quickly.
    Agnes stared straight ahead in the way that folks do when they’re trying not to cry. Unfortunately for both of us, that meant she was looking directly at me while trying hard not to see me. Trust me; that was a losing proposition given that my Yoder nose has its own zip code.
    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?’
    â€˜ What? ’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Fight back? Against what ?’
    â€˜Your insults, Magdalena,’ Wanda said, ‘that’s what.’
    â€˜But I didn’t say anything insulting. I was just—’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜By whom?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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