From Bad to Wurst (8 page)

Zola clasped Mom's hand, pinched her eyes shut, and in a matter of minutes unearthed her first tidbit.

“I see bookshelves with many, many books. Do you work in a bookstore, Mrs. Andrew?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” said Mom.

“She works in a public library,” I advised.

“Of course,” said Zola. “I can see it now. And you need to upgrade your technology because you're still in the Dark Ages, using the Dewey decimal system.”

“That's right,” I said, duly impressed. But how did she know that?

“And I see soup cans in some kind of kitchen pantry…and they're all in alphabetical order. Dozens and dozens of soup cans.”

Otis and Gilbert glanced at me, apparently awaiting an opinion. “She's good, guys. Really good.”

While Zola continued to entertain us by outing Mom's eccentricities, we followed the course of a meandering river and soon entered a wide valley that was flanked by sprawling mountains whose sloped shoulders were nearly black with forest. Unlike Norway, there were no waterfalls cascading from crags and niches. Unlike Switzerland, there was no snow capping the highest peaks. But given the valley's lushness and isolation, I felt as if we were in Scotland, about to enter the fictional world of Brigadoon, minus the Broadway set and the musical soundtrack by Lerner and Loewe.

“And you're about to witness some serious limelight,” Zola predicted as the bus slowed to a crawl. “A once in a lifetime event. So put a smile on your face and enjoy.”

To our left, a tidy expanse of green space beckoned visitors with shade trees, walking paths, and an intriguing array of statuary. To our right, a building that could only be the Passion Play Theater stretched the length of a football field. Mostly windowless, it resembled an updated warehouse with a soaring roof and horizontal stripes that alternated between basic white and a color that Crayola would refer to as Desert Sand.

“Are we done?” Mom asked her.

“That's all I've got.”

“Oh, good.” Mom looked across the aisle at me. “I'm not quite remembering, but did she happen to mention where we are?”

We coasted to a stop in front of the theater, which was our cue to gather up our belongings and perch on the edge of our seats until the doors opened. I could feel the excitement begin to build. Shoes scraping the floor. Cell phones at the ready.

Wally threw out a few final instructions. “We'll meet at this exact location in four hours. We couldn't arrange a tour of the Passion Play House, but I suggest you stroll around the outside to get an idea of how enormous the theater is. The last renovation was completed in 1999, which enlarged the seating capacity to 4,720, allowing it to accommodate more patrons than either the Metropolitan or Sydney Opera Houses.”

The doors whooshed open.

“And one more thing before I cut you loose. I told you about Mrs. Andrew's health issue before we left, so let me reiterate. If you should see her wandering around the streets of Oberammergau without a companion, I would ask you to take personal responsibility and take her under your wing. She's going to be a little disoriented for a couple of days, so we all need to pitch in to make sure she stays safe.”

“Did you hear that?” Mom said in a stage whisper. “There's another Mrs. Andrew on the bus.” She cast a long look down the length of the vehicle as if trying to pick the woman out of the crowd. “Do you think we're related?”

“Okay, then,” said Wally. “Have a good time.”

And the race was on.

Everyone sprang from their seats and bunched into the center aisle, the log jam thinning out only as guests reached the exits.

“Which venue is first on our list?” Tilly asked into her phone, initializing a verbal text.

Seconds later, a flurry of tings rang out on the bus. Nana scanned the message that Tilly had just sent and spoke into her phone to reply. “We might wanna try out that restaurant what Wally told us about.”

Ting. Ting. Ting
.

“Head for the nearest restaurant,” Dick Teig yelled out from somewhere in front of us. “Marion wants to try out the walleye.”

I rolled my eyes. Great new feature, this words-to-text thing. No possibility at all for miscommunication.

I took hold of Mom's arm and guided her toward the stepwell.

“Where's your father, Emily? He didn't go and get himself lost, did he?”

“Dad stayed behind at the hotel to practice the accordion for his big musical debut.”

“Your father doesn't play the accordion.”

At least she remembered that much.

eight

“What happened to your
face?”

My hand flew to my cheek. “Why? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Bernice. “That's why I'm asking. How'd you get rid of the crud?” She pushed her face close to mine, squinting at me one-eyed. “Are you wearing some kind of new industrial-strength concealer?”

We were standing on the intricately designed brick walkway of the main street, perusing a building above whose storefront windows were painted the words
Anno Domini 1635
. To the right of the date, a scene depicting the Crucifixion of Christ rose two stories, from the overhang above the ground floor to the third-story roof. To the left of the crucifix, a handful of people wearing white hose and academic robes raised their right hands toward the heavens, flashing what looked like peace signs. To the far right, a dozen men in flowing cloaks and floppy wide-brimmed hats huddled around a table, listening to a bearded gent read a decree from a scroll. I didn't know if this was a modern interpretation of the Last Supper or an updated version of Pontius Pilate rendering his judgment, but the mural left me a little confused both historically and geographically because to my untutored eyes everyone looked like a pilgrim.

“It's not concealer,” I told Bernice, unable to hide my continued amazement. “Tilly lent me a jar of homemade corrective cream, and this was the result after only one application. Pretty amazing
,
huh?”

She tested my cheek with her fingertip, as if expecting to find telltale signs of theatrical makeup. When her finger came back clean, she arched her brows. “She makes it herself?”

“Yup. With secret ingredients flown in from New Guinea.”

“And it repairs skin…overnight?”

“It sure did in my case.”

She turned away from me to scan the street. “She's got a lot of nerve keeping this to herself. Where is she? We gotta talk.”

The main street of Oberammergau flaunted its alpine heritage with equal parts pride and charm. Merchant shops boasted the chalet-style architecture that had been perfected by the Swiss and re-created by Department 56 snow villages. Roofs were steeply pitched. Painted shutters framed every window. Decorative balconies clung to every upper-story landing. Summer flowers tumbled from window boxes, spilled from balcony rails, flowed from curbside planters, and hung from every lamppost. I knew we were in Bavaria, but everything about this place screamed Switzerland. All that was missing was the sound of cow bells ringing from high alpine meadows and a few ornery mountain goats.

“There she is.” I pointed to a clump of people gathered on the sidewalk a block farther down the street. Tilly was easy to find in a crowd not only because of her signature beret, pleated skirt, and walking stick, but because she was half a head taller than the other ladies and built like Olive Oyl.

“Come on,” ordered Bernice as she struck out in that direction. “You're my witness.”

“For what?” I fell in beside her as a double-decker Asiana tour bus roared past us, spewing diesel fumes in its wake.

“For the scoop about the miracle cream. If you're there, she can't tell me she doesn't know what I'm talking about.”

I had to walk double-time to keep up with her. “How come you're not eating lunch in the restaurant like all of you planned?”

“Too crowded. We're going later.”

The gang and other guests were congregated outside K
ä
the Wohlfahrt's Christmas store, wielding their phones like bidding paddles at an auction: snapping pictures, sending texts, and shooting video. They'd formed a queue curbside, waiting their turn to have their photo taken in front of the Humpty Dumpty figure that was perched on a toy chest near the store entrance. At least, I assumed it was Humpty. If not, it was simply an oversized egg with a mustache, alpine hat, short pants, and clown's feet.

“Time's up!” yelled Dick Stolee as he regarded his smartphone. Dick's favorite feature on his device was the stopwatch function, so he enjoyed setting strict time limits on completely irrelevant activities. “Okay, folks, let's keep moving. We've only got three hours and forty minutes left.” He shooed Osmond away from the statue and motioned to Dick Teig to release the next person in line.

Bernice parked herself in front of Tilly, who'd ended up at the back of the line with Nana and Mom. “That cream you lent Emily to get rid of the crud on her face? I want some.”

Tilly braced her hands on her walking stick, leaned forward, and stared at Bernice down the length of her nose. “Can't help you. I've depleted my supply.”

“It's gone?” Bernice fired an accusing look at me. “This is all
your
fault. You have a heck of a lot of nerve using all the stuff up before Tilly can hand out free samples.”

“Emily had crud on her face?” said Mom, her eyes swimming in their sockets as if trying to retrieve the image.

“She looked like she'd been blasted with buckshot,” said Bernice, “but Tilly's cream cleared it up overnight. So if one application can do
that
to the bride of Frankenstein here, there's no telling what it can do for someone like me, whose only imperfections are a couple of insignificant laugh lines around my mouth.”

It was apparent now that the more immediate problem with Bernice wasn't with her face but with her eyesight.

Mom inched closer to Bernice for a better look. “Those laugh lines aren't your only imperfections, dear, but look at the bright side: you're not half as wrinkled as some other folks around here.” Eyebrows waggling like Groucho Marx, Mom bobbed her head toward Nana.

I hung my head and winced.
Oh, God
. Life had been so much less stressful when Mom had been predictable…and unfailingly polite.

“What's that smell?” asked Mom, suddenly distracted.

Nana wriggled her nose as she inhaled. “Exhaust fumes.”

Mom shook her head. “This is a good smell.”

“Bernice,” I spoke up, “if you want to sample the cream, I'll give you the jar. There's still a lot left.”

“
You've
got the jar?”

“Not with me. It's back at the hotel.”

“Excellent. You can hand it over when we get back.” She ran a knuckle down her cheek. “I can apply my first treatment before we hit the beer tent tonight. Doesn't hurt to freshen up the complexion a little. You never know who might be there, just waiting to introduce himself.”

“It smells like apple pie,” said Mom, chin elevated as she sniffed the air.

Having inherited Mom's olfactory genes, I could smell it too. “Maybe there's a pastry shop nearby.” In which case, I could look into my own future and predict that I was about to succumb to that most dreaded of all temptations: the three-thousand calorie dessert.

The woman ahead of us in line turned around, smoke billowing around her head like a low-lying cloud. “It's not pie. It's Cinnamon Apple Crumble. Isn't it divine?” Securing her cigarette between her middle- and forefingers, she held it up as if she were showcasing exhibit A in a criminal trial and swept her other hand through the smoke to steer it in our direction. “Best innovation since sliced bread. And it comes in an assortment of other scrumptious flavors: Tahitian Punch, Caramel Macchiato, Cherry Crush, Peach Schnapps, and my all-time favorite, Piña Colada.”

Nana eyed it suspiciously. “I never seen no cigarette what smelled like that before.”

“That's because, technically, it's not a real cigarette. It's what's called an electronic cigarette.”

Her name tag identified her as Maisie Barnes, but I recognized her as the nasally voiced woman who'd sung Astrid Peterson's praises at the gathering last night—the one who'd suggested that business as usual for the remaining bands would be disrespectful of Astrid's memory. She stood about my height, boasted curves in all the right places, had mesmerizing blue-green eyes, and wore her graying hair in a perky short-clipped style that would negate her ever having to buy conditioner, curling gel, elastic texturizer, shine mist, anti-frizz serum, hair spray, or mousse.

I eyed her maintenance-free hairdo with envy, but I feared that if I ever followed suit I'd put the entire hair product industry in jeopardy. I guess it said a lot about the manageability of my hair when a change in my buying habits could bring down a whole sector of the market.

“I've been trying to break the habit for years,” Maisie chattered on, “but couldn't get over the hump. Gum. Pills. Patches. Hypnosis. Nothing worked—until I tried this little beauty. I started making the substitution about a month ago, and I think I'm doing a kickass job. Isn't that right, Stretch?” She thwacked the man in front of her on the shoulder.

I recognized him from the group meeting last night, too. The actual name on his badge read Ralph Doozey, but he obviously preferred his nickname. And in an irony that so often happens with nicknames, Stretch was about the same height as Nana.

“Yup. We're real proud of Maisie.” He circled his arm around her waist with casual familiarity. His voice was a surprise because it was so high-pitched, he could have shared the lead singer role with Alvin and the Chipmunks. “In another couple of months, she'll be living a tobacco-free life…with a hefty raise in her paycheck to show for it.”

Maisie nodded agreement. “Wendell and everyone else at work have been busting my chops for two years to give up the crutch, and I'm finally coming through for them.”

“Wendell?” I asked. “The Guten Tags' trumpet player? You work with him?”

“He's my boss. And Stretch's boss. He's everyone's boss: the Guten Tags, the Little Bittes, the Das Biers, the Brassed Offs. You ever heard of Newton Lock and Key outside Boone? We all work there. Wendell owns the company.”

“Time's up,” barked Dick Stolee. “Next!”

We shuffled a half-step ahead as Lucille Rasmussen hurried toward Humpty.

“I had no idea you all worked at the same place,” I confessed. Our new travel questionnaires asked guests to disclose everything about their health history and nothing about their work history.

“We're one big happy work family,” admitted Stretch, which made me wonder how well acquainted he was with Otis and Gilbert. “Of course, we don't all work in the same department. We're divvied up between production, sales, shipping, and accounting, but we work under the same roof, so we've known each other for eons.”

“And you're all musical,” said Tilly. “Is that a requirement of the job?”

Maisie shook her head. “It just kind of worked out that way. Once Astrid started the Guten Tags, we discovered that every one of us had had some kind of musical training when we were kids, so we blew the dust off our instruments and decided to join the fun. Stretch and me, we're part of the Little Bitte Band, and not to brag or anything, but folks tell us that of the four company bands, we're the best.” She took a drag on her cigarette and released a stream of cinnamon apple smoke into the air.

Her fake cigarette might not be real, but it sure bore a striking resemblance to a real cigarette, right down to the fiery tip. “Exactly how does that thing work?” I asked.

“Uh, well, without getting too technical, there's a cartridge, an atomizer, and a battery, and the mechanism heats up the liquid in the cartridge and turns it into vapor. So the stuff that looks like smoke, isn't; it's water vapor. The device is actually nothing more than a little vaporizer disguised as a cigarette, so I'm not really smoking. I'm vaping.”

Mom tsked with disapproval.

“What?” asked Maisie.

“Save your complexion while you still can.” She lowered her voice and bobbed her head in Nana's direction again. “Look what decades of smoking has done to the woman at the end of the line.”

Nana puffed out her cheeks, eyes snapping, voice rising. “I can hear you, Margaret, on account of I'm
old
, not deaf. And since I told you I never took no puff of no cigarette in my entire life, you can't go blamin' my wrinkles on no tobacco products.”

“Then how do you explain them?” challenged Mom.

Nana narrowed her eyes. “It's part of a continuin' natural disaster.”

“Time's up,” announced Dick Stolee. “Next!”

Alice Tjarks raced toward Humpty. The rest of us moved up in line.

“How about we take a group photo for the society page of the
Gazette
?” Alice suggested as she posed in front of the egg.

Dick Stolee nodded agreement. “Good idea. Hey, everyone, gather around Alice so we can take a group shot.”

They hurried away from the sidewalk spinners displaying postcards, key chains, and personalized mugs to huddle around Alice—Margi, Lucille, and Helen filling in one side while Grace, Osmond, and George filled in the other. The two Dicks left their posts to kneel in front, which was pretty gutsy of them considering they might never be able to get back up again. George motioned for us to join them. “Come on, girls.”

Nana shook her head. “Can't. I don't wanna give up my place in line.”

“You do realize you're at the back of the line, right?” scoffed Bernice. Breaking ranks with us, she crab-walked toward the group and planted herself in front of the Dicks.

“Do you want me to take the photo?” I asked as I fished my phone out of my shoulder bag.

“Nope,” said Dick Stolee. “We're good.”

I frowned. “Well, Bernice needs to shift either left or right because she's completely blocking the Dicks.”

Bernice shrugged. “Is that a problem?”

“Okay, everyone,” announced Dick Stolee. “On my count. One…”

Like members of a drum corps color guard, they shot into action. Up went their phones.

“Two…”

Synchronizing their smiles, they gazed into their personal devices.