Play It Again, Spam

by Tamar Myers

  “Diana, can we talk?”

  “What’s there to talk about? You think I’m crazy.”

  I prayed for an understanding heart and a gentle tongue. “Don’t you?”

  “Well, we’re all entitled to our eccentricities, so let’s just say that you are more blessed in that department than most.”

  The black wig whipped around again, narrowly missing my left eye. “Okay, you win. Sometimes the line between fact and fantasy blurs for me. Is that so wrong? I mean, just look at you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Well, there you are, a good Mennonite girl, practically never been kissed—”

  “Oh, I’ve been kissed, sister! I’ve had the full monty.” Okay, so I never saw the movie, but Susannah did. Frankly, she was disappointed that she didn’t see the full monty.”

  “What I mean is, you live this virtuous, restricted life, based on your religious beliefs, of course, but you’re in the minority.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I wailed. Don’t think for a minute that I doubt who I am, or what I believe—well, okay, but doubt is a perfectly natural component of faith. Reverend Schrock said so in his last sermon.

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just that you might consider loosening up a bit. You know, live into your fantasies.”

  “Is it profitable?” I asked sensibly.

  Diana smiled. “Spoken like a true Yoder. It can be.”

  I ignored her insensitive generalization. “Okay, so you’re no longer Mother Anjelica Houston, but you still heading up the Convent of the Broken Heart in Bedford?”

  “Yes, but now we call it a retreat. We offer psychic adjustment and spiritual travel. You’d be surprised what folks can be talked into spending their money on, just so long as they think it’s something really special, something not available to the hoi polloi.”

  “So that’s where my clientele went! And all this time I thought they were in Montana frolicking naked with wolves.”

  “Heavens, no! Montana and Wyoming are pass6 now. No, Magdalena, I’m happy to say that the Retreat of the Fractured Soul is now the watering hole of the rich and blameless.”

  She turned and strode toward the farmhouse. Despite the twenty years she has on me, I practically had to run to keep up.

  “Are you trying to tell me that Babs and John and Shirley now hang out in that dump of yours?” I knew that it was only a matter of time before Travolta would bolt, but not those two.

  “Well, not Shirley. Not anymore. She didn’t like Sister Agnes’s cooking and left this morning.”

  “Oh, so that’s why you’re really here. You came to steal Freni from me. Well, I’ve got news for you, dear. Freni quit!”

  “I don’t care about Freni. She doesn’t cook vegetarian anyway. Like I told you, I came to help you find the missing presence—I mean, people.”

  I lagged a cautious step behind. “Which is it, dear? Are you as nutty as Grandma Yoder’s fruitcake, or a pragmatic businesswoman?”

  “Both.”

  “Come again?”

  She stopped abruptly and I nearly slammed into her. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Sometimes I am Ankhesenamen, and sometimes I’m me, Diana Louise Lefcourt. Yes, I know, I have a grown son living in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, but I had three children in Egypt. They’re dead now, of course, but I can remember them just as clearly as I can my son in Johnstown.”

  She was right. I didn’t understand.

  “Well, you don’t say!” Better a little gentle sarcasm, I figured, than an outright harsh remark. Trust me, Irma Yoder, bless her aged missing heart, would not have shown such restraint.

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand. But that’s how it is. Some days I’m more one than the other. I don’t seem able to control it much anymore.”

  “Oh?”

  “It wasn’t like this in the beginning, you know.”

  “Oh?” What else was there to say? I had prayed for a charitable tongue, and was still waiting for the Good Lord to send me the replacement. Until it arrived, it was best to say as little as possible.

  “I started the convent, as I called it back then, as a place where women could gather and express themselves freely. The channeling thing was just a lark—something to amuse us in the evenings. But then gradually it became real to me. Tutankhamen—well, I was never really him, but something made me pick him as the channeler, and then later Ankhesenamen.”

  “Could that something have been the devil, dear?”

  “Magdalena, you don’t still believe in a devil, do you? All red with horns and a tail?”

  “You forgot the pitchfork, dear.” It was meant to be facetious.

  “You do, don’t you? Of course you do! How charming.” I blushed devil red. I know I’m a dying breed, but there you have it. I do believe in the devil. Of course, I don’t believe he—and indeed he is male—necessarily has a tail and horns. Or carries a pitchfork. More likely he is a wiry little thing with bulging eyes and wears a police chief’s uniform.

  “Well, at least I believe in God too,” I mumbled.

  “So do I, Magdalena. But we are all God. Don’t you get it? Every one of us is a component of the universal godhead.”

  Again, I thought of a wiry little man with bulging eyes and a police chief’s uniform. “Wrong!”

  “Oh well, I guess there is no point in trying to enlighten you.”

  “Likewise I’m sure, dear. So, you went chasing after false prophets and caught up with one. Well, let’s see, I don’t think Reverend Schrock performs exorcisms, but the priest over in Bedford might.”

  Diana grabbed both my wrists. Her extraordinarily strong grip was certainly a testimony to the power of fruits and nuts.

  “Look, we can stand here in this miserable wet cow pasture and argue theology and the state of my mental health, or we can do something to save your life.”

  “My life?”

  Diana nodded. “I wasn’t going to tell you this unless I had to, because I knew it would freak you out. But I had a dream last night in which you were killed. I’ve had three of these dreams in the past, Magdalena, and every one of them came true.”

  Eighteen

  There is power in a crazy face. While I didn’t for a minute believe that Diana was a mummy’s mommy, I wasn’t about to discount her dream. Not without more details, at any rate. After all, Granny Yoder dreamed about my parents’ death fifteen years before it happened. Never mind that Granny got a few of the details wrong—Mama did not drown in a vat of milk, and Papa was not squashed by a giant tennis shoe. But you see, Granny had the basic components, and in her dream my parents died on the same day.

  “Where, when, and how?” I demanded.

  Diana had let go of one of my wrists, but she was pulling me along by the other. “The where is the hardest part. It’s someplace close and familiar, but I can’t get a clear picture. Someplace round, I think. Or near something round.”

  “Someplace round? The earth is round, for pete’s sake, or haven’t they learned that in Egypt yet?”

  Diana gave me an extra strong tug and I nearly fell flat on my face. Thank heavens there were no longer any cows on the old Miller spread.

  “Of course we know the earth is round. For your information it wasn’t Columbus or even the Vikings who discovered America.”

  “I know, silly, it was the Asians—although now we call them Indians, or Native Americans.”

  “Yes. But I mean from the west.”

  “Oh, so now you’re going to tell me that folks from Cairo founded Rio?”

  “I wish—even though it wasn’t Cairo in my day. Alas, it was the Phoenicians who made that great sea voyage to the New World. But I can assure you, it wasn’t my fault for lack of trying. I kept nagging Tut to invest in overseas exploration, but oh no, the man was obsessed with stockpiling his tomb. You can take it with you was his motto, you know.”

  “How inspiring, dear. But can we get on with wh
at happens to me?”

  “Yes, well, like I said, the place wasn’t very clear, but as to how—are you sure you can take this?”

  “How?" I wailed.

  “You get crushed.”

  “Crushed? What does that mean?”

  “You know, like flattened. Rolled over with something?”

  “What kind of something? A steamroller?” I knew the county was getting ready to resurface the highway into Bedford. In fact, I had lobbied hard to get the levy passed, and had come up against some rather strong opposition. I will admit that at times the debate got a little bit heated, and I may have let a few things slip out that I shouldn’t have. And while I wouldn’t have been surprised to find myself tarred and feathered as a result, tarred and painted with a dotted yellow line was going too far.

  “It couldn’t be a steamroller,” Diana said gravely, “because you’re in some kind of building.”

  “Ah, yes, the one with the round rooms.”

  “Are you making fun of me again, Magdalena?”

  “Not at all, dear.”

  “Good, because you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and I came here to save you. I tried warning those silly Trojans, you know, but—”

  “Save away,” I wailed, “but can you spare me the history lesson?”

  Diana’s grip on my wrist tightened. Fortunately, I am ambidextrous.

  “I told you I dreamt you would die in a round space—or near a round shape. I didn’t say it was a room. It could be anywhere. This pasture, even.”

  “This pasture isn’t round, dear.”

  “Maybe, but that pond back there is.”

  My pace quickened. Now it was me pulling her. “Come on, dear. Get a move on it, before a meteor hits.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s going to be a meteor. No, this is something man made. Maybe one of those jumbo jets with huge tires is going to land on you. We never had to worry about that in Egypt.”

  I glanced at the sky. No planes in sight.

  “When?”

  “Today,” she said calmly. “Tomorrow at the latest.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. “You really and truly dreamt this?”

  “Would I be wasting my time, here, on a day like this, if I hadn’t?”

  “Okay, let’s say you dreamt it, and that your dreams do come true. What does this have to do with the missing presences—I mean, people?”

  “They’re somewhere on this property, Magdalena, and like you, they’re in great danger.”

  “Then we should be going home,” I wailed. “I don’t have to help Melvin. We can call in the county sheriff.” “No.”

  “What do you mean ‘no’? Unlike you, I only get one life!”

  “Because I had two dreams, and in the second dream you did something and it saved not only your life, but theirs.”

  “What did I do?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t remember?”

  “I’m not perfect, Magdalena. Sometimes I forget my dreams—just like you do.”

  Boy, was that a laugh. Ever since the day Aaron called me from Minnesota to tell me that we weren’t legally married after all, and that he had reconciled with his first wife, I’ve had the same reoccurring nightmare. I won’t bore you with details, but it involves that telephone call, our wedding night, a tub of low-fat whipped topping, and a large orange balloon. Just believe me when I say that every detail of that dream is crystal clear when I wake, and remains with me the rest of the day.

  “Anyway, Magdalena, in the second dream you took matters into your own hands and saved the day. And you saved the benign presence.”

  “Shouldn’t we have at least brought along a shovel? Or a pickax?” Just because I’m a pacifist in life, doesn’t mean I plan to die peacefully. My great-great-great-great- grandmother, a Hostetler, was stabbed in the back and scalped by the Delaware, while her husband did nothing to defend her. I had no intention of repeating her hair-raising experience.

  Diana laughed. “Magdalena, it’s your mind that is needed, not some garden tool.”

  “My mind?” I asked dangerously.

  “You’re one of the brightest, sharpest people I know. I have every faith in you.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course! I’m nowhere near ready to die again. Just between you and me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “So practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect?”

  “Not in this case. Take that time on the Titanic, for instance—”

  If I had to die that April day, it wasn’t going to be from boredom. “Race you to the Miller house!” I cried.

  Despite a breakfast of pancakes and bacon, I could still outrun Diana Lefcourt.

  I never have liked the Miller house. It spooked me even as a child. Constance, Aaron’s grandmother, was a pretentious woman who eschewed traditional Pennsylvania Dutch farmhouse architecture in favor of Victorian gingerbread. Unfortunately, the humble Mennonite laborers she hired didn’t know gingerbread from banana bread, and the result was a pseudogothic structure with more towers and turrets than Windsor Castle. Susannah tells me it looks like the Addams family’s house, which, since it isn’t in Bedford County, I have yet to see.

  At any rate, Aaron’s father did little to improve his inheritance. He had the cheerful yellow exterior of the house painted gray, and his wife Rebecca hired a heterosexual interior decorator from Pittsburgh. Enough said.

  “I feel some vibes from the barn,” Diana said, “but most of them are coming from the house.”

  I stared at the dismal behemoth. Even I could feel the vibes. They were almost as strong as the vibes coming from Granny Yoder’s room the day she died. Every now and then I can still feel them when I crawl into bed. “Maybe we should start with the barn,” I said.

  “Magdalena, are you scared?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. It’s just that the barn isn’t locked, and it would be easier for someone to hide in there, if that is indeed what John Burk and Irma Yoder are doing.”

  “You are scared, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not, dear!” That lie just slipped out. All the same, I was going to have to be careful, or pretty soon I could eat my supper out of anthills. And anyway, there is nothing wrong with cowardice, as long as it is for self-preservation. Fear is a God-given instinct, after all.

  “Well, I’m scared, Magdalena.”

  “You are?”

  “I told you, dying isn’t any fun. Of course, some ways of getting your ticket punched are worse than others. Take the Hindenberg, for example—”

  “No thanks, dear.” I flipped over the soggy doormat and retrieved the key, which I knew all along would be there. There isn’t a Mennonite worth her bonnet who would think to hide her house key anyplace but under the front mat. Rebecca Miller had been no exception, and Aaron Senior, bless his dotty heart, was not the type to mess with tradition. As for Aaron, Jr., my former Pooky Bear, to put it kindly—well, since when do weasels lock their dens?

  That the key was rusty, and so was the lock, didn’t make a lick of difference because the heavy oak door swung open with a creak the second I touched it. For a moment, I peered into the gloom. Then, like the intelligent woman I am, I flipped on the foyer light switch.

  “Let there be light,” I said.

  And there was light. Now, I don’t mean to be sacrilegious. My point is that even though the Miller house was unoccupied, it still had electricity. Earl Whitaker of Hernia Realty has been trying to sell the Miller farm for months. Walmart expressed a brief interest, as did a Japanese firm, but so far no one has even made an offer. Last month a well-to-do Amish family spent several days examining the fields and inspecting the barn. Most likely they even took a peek inside the house, because the last I saw of them they were headed north on Hertlzer Road, their buggy wheels a blur. Like I said, the place has bad vibes.

  “Earl!” I called. “You in there?”

  There was no answer.
Earl, Ali Baba, and a hundred thieves could have been hiding on the ground floor alone, and I never would have known it. This branch of the Millers is genetically incapable of discarding anything, and since Rebecca was a Miller on her mama’s side, the foible was only compounded. No doubt the heterosexual decorator had been able to convince Rebecca to part with a few things, but in the fifty intervening years nothing brought into the house ever left.

  I must admit that there are certain advantages to clutter—one need never worry about dusting or sweeping, and new introductions to the melange always match with something. Diana and I timorously wound our way around stacks of yellow newspaper, piles of vintage clothes, and towers of musty books. Those were the more normative things. The eight defunct bathroom scales and twenty-six broken manual typewriters were harder to explain. And why would anyone keep five shoeboxes filled with rubber bands so old they were fused to each other? Or six boxes of half-empty sewing machine bobbins? Or nine shoeboxes of old pens, their ink long since dried up? And what about the literally hundreds of empty plastic two-liter bottles, their labels carefully removed? Of what use were they? Not to mention the large garbage bag filled with the cotton packing removed from medicine bottles. And are any of you wondering where your wire hangers have disappeared to? Well, look no further. The bad news is they took a vacation to the Miller house; the good news is they have been engaging in nonstop procreation since then. Or is it the other way around? At any rate, you are welcome to come to Hernia and collect your wire coat hangers and their progeny. As of this moment they fill up the entire Miller dining room and spill out into the hallway.

  “Looks like somebody could have used a garage sale,” I said kindly. I didn’t say a word about a garbage truck.

  Diana nodded. Her eyes were wide, no doubt a mixture of fear and wonder.

  “Possession is a primitive need that we at the retreat seek to eliminate.”

  “I’m sure that’s so, dear. Eliminate Babs’s need for possessions and she turns them all over to you, right? Well, just remember, she promised me that Art Deco Tiffany lamp she travels with.”

  “Magdalena! How terribly crass of you.”