by Tamar Myers
Susannah quickly sat up straight, so quickly, in fact, her rocker almost dumped her out on the porch. I could see the bulge that was Shnookums shift in her bra. Half-empty bras must hold terrors that none of us except Shnookums can even imagine. “I went out to the barn only once,” she said emphatically. “And that was when I discovered the—well, you know what.”
"The body,” said Mose gently. “Susannah, we are your family here, there is no need to lie. I saw you go into the barn three times that morning, not just once.”
“Three times?” I piped up.
Mose nodded. “I was mending the pasture fence on the south side of the barn. The top wire has been down in one corner for some time now, and Bertha likes to step right over the bottom wire and into the corn field. That morning I decided to keep the cows penned up in the milk shed while I worked. Bertha gets kind of pushy sometimes, and if you’re not looking—”
“I went out to the barn only once,” repeated Susannah. She said it softly, like she didn’t expect us to believe her. But of course I did believe her. It’s when my sister protests loudly that my antennae go up their highest. Liars pay the highest price of all for freedom of speech.
“Go on with your story,” I urged Mose.
Mose glanced at Susannah, and then quickly away. His antennae were not tuned in to her station. “Like I was saying, I was mending the fence when I saw Susannah go into the barn the first time.”
“About what time was that?”
Mose doesn’t wear a watch either, but he can read the sun almost as well as I can read my quartz. “About ten maybe. Anyway, Susannah goes in, but I get busy with my mending, so I don’t see her go out. But I know she’s in there, because I can hear Matilda bawling the whole time. Matilda’s very sensitive, you know. Even though there’s a wall between the milk shed and the hay barn, she can tell if someone’s in there.”
“Wrong!” said Susannah.
Mose looked to me for encouragement before continuing.
“Go on, Mose,” I said.
“So, when I finish the job I look up and there I see Susannah again. Headed for the barn. I think to myself that this is kind of strange, because Matilda’s been bawling the whole time, but Susannah’s been gone for awhile. Then I notice that Susannah is carrying something.”
‘‘Double wrong.”
“What kind of something?” I asked.
“I don’t know, maybe a purse or something.”
“Come on! Why would I carry a purse to my own barn?” asked Susannah quite reasonably.
Mose shrugged, which was his way of saying he thought Susannah was capable of anything—that is, short of murder. “Maybe it was a box, then.”
“Right, like a coffin,” snapped Susannah.
I patted my sister’s arm in a motherly fashion, until she snatched it away. “I happen to believe you, now let Mose get on with his story.”
Mose was still stroking his beard. “So, I start to wonder why Matilda has been bawling the whole time, and then I figure that maybe it was because I forgot to milk her.”
“Ouch.” Although I’ve never been a milk cow, I understand that if they are not milked regularly, twice a day, the pressure on their udders can be quite painful. I suppose it’s something like the time Susannah drank a two-liter bottle of pop while we were on a car trip, and I wouldn’t stop to let her use the bathroom.
“I do remember milking Bertha,” said Mose defensively.
I smiled reassuringly. “And it was delicious. Now, please, finish your story.”
“Funny thing is that when I did milk Matilda, she was pretty much dry. Anyway, I was just coming out of the milk shed when I saw Susannah going into the barn for the third time. But she was in there only about a minute, when she ran out screaming.”
“You would too if you saw what I saw!” said Susannah.
“Yah, maybe I would.”
“You mean you didn’t go into the barn to investigate?”
Mose spread his big wrinkled hands in a gesture of surrender. “Yah, maybe I should have. But, Susannah, well, she—”
“Tends to get hysterical over the slightest thing?” I supplied.
“Yah. I thought maybe she had seen a mouse.”
“You see! Nobody ever takes me seriously!” Susannah pounded one of her not-so-dainty fists on arm of her rocker, and in so doing she must have jarred Shnookums, because I heard him yip. Fortunately Freni didn’t seem to hear it.
“I take you more seriously than you’ll ever know,” I said. I turned back to Mose. “Okay, so you saw Susannah enter the barn three times that morning—”
“Once! And whose side are you on, Magdalena, anyway?”
I ignored my sister. “But did you see Don Manley go into the barn?”
Mose shook his head. “I had my back turned some of the time.”
“And now you’re turning it on me,” cried Susannah.
I felt terrible for Mose. Ever since Papa died, he has been a surrogate father to both Susannah and me. Mose and Freni never had any daughters, just the one son, John, and, well, how much comfort can a monosyllabic son be? I knew Mose cared deeply about both of us, although I’ve long suspected that Susannah was his favorite. When Susannah was a little girl, Mose used to let her ride on his plow horse—something he never let me do. Susannah was allowed to help him milk too, until the time she almost drowned one of the barn kittens by putting him in a half-full milk pail. But my point is that despite her wild and English ways, Susannah has always been the apple of Mose’s eye, albeit a crab apple in recent years.
“Susannah, I’m only trying to gather facts,” I said. “Nobody here believes you killed Don Manley.”
“But they do!” wailed Susannah.
“Do you?” I asked our kin.
Mose simply looked away.
“If the shoe fits,” said Freni.
“Yah,” said John.
“But on the other hand, nobody actually saw her do it,” said Barbara reasonably. “Back home we would have to see proof before we made up our minds.”
Freni glared at Barbara, but managed to curb her tongue. The daughter-in-law she disapproved of was just going to have to take a backseat to the murdering cousin. Freni was always one for priorities.
Susannah and I started walking home in relative silence. The only sounds we produced were Susannah’s sighs and an occasional puff from me. I’m not a spring chicken anymore, and the path through the woods goes up a slight incline on the return trip.
It is most probably the very same path, by the way, that our great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Jacob Hochstetler, took on his westward march in 1750. This was not a voluntary walk; he had been captured by the Delaware Indians in eastern Pennsylvania and was headed for Ohio. Jacob’s wife had just been stabbed and scalped, and two of his children taken captive as well, so he could not have been in such a good mood himself. But he could not have been in a worse mood than I was just then.
The way I felt, I would have been glad if a band of Delaware Indians had leapt out of the shadows and taken me captive. With any luck, they would scalp me immediately; my hair is baby fine and has always been impossible to style. Just ask Heather. With lesser luck, they would leave my locks alone and take me back to their camp and make me one of their squaws. Just as long as my brave wasn’t as dumb as Melvin Stoltzfus, I would still come out ahead. A lifetime of hauling wood and water and sweeping out wigwams would certainly be preferable to the turn my life had taken recently. Having been personally accused of murder was bad enough, but uncovering evidence that my baby sister might well be the murderess was even worse. Of course, I believed there was a good explanation for the things Mose had seen. Or did I?
“Susannah, I really believe you’re innocent,” I said. Somewhere to my left the resident owl hooted derisively at my statement.
“Just leave me alone, Magdalena.”
“No, I really mean it. I’ll find out who really did it, Susannah. That’s a promise.”
Su
sannah laughed hysterically. “Sure you will, and the culprit will be me, myself, and I. The three of us, Magdalena. The three Susannahs Mose saw entering the barn that morning. At least they won’t be able to put me in solitary confinement.” She laughed again, but this time the harsh false laughter dissolved into whimpers, which soon became sobs. Perturbed by his mistress’s distress, the ever-loyal and impossibly high-strung Shnookums began a series of high-pitched yips. Then even the owl joined in.
I hurried forward and grabbed her by the arm. “Susannah Yoder Entwhistle! You should be ashamed of yourself. It isn’t like you to give up like that.”
“Oh, leave me alone, Mags,” Susannah wailed, and sat right down in the middle of the path.
Our ancestor, Jacob Hochstetler, would have been ashamed of her. I certainly was. He didn’t quit when the going got tough, and he was only a man. “Our people don’t quit when the going gets tough,” I said sternly. Then I dug down into the bottom of my barrel of weapons and pulled out the meanest and dirtiest one of them all. “If Mama could see you now, she would turn over in her grave.”
“Let her turn,” cried Susannah. “No, I hope she spins in her grave. In fact, I hope she spins so fast that she digs her way right down to China.”
I sat down beside my sister. “Susannah, how you talk!” I tried to sound disapproving, but it wasn’t easy.
My sister was not deterred. “Who knows, maybe she’ll wind up in one of those opium dens. Do they still have opium dens, Magdalena?”
“I don’t know. But it’s too bad they’ve outlawed foot binding. Mama’s feet were enormous.”
“Even bigger than yours, I think.” Susannah was starting to laugh again.
I looked down at my feet, which looked huge even in the moonlight. The thought of Mama walking around China with her size-twelve feet was enough to start me laughing as well. Eventually Susannah and I put our arms around each other—an unusual occurrence, I assure you —and laughed till the tears streamed down our faces. It would have been a perfect, albeit temporary reconciliation if only that mutt Shnookums had kept his mug shut. And despite intense wishing on my part, the owl did not swoop down and carry him away.
That night I slept like a teenager. For one of the very few times in my life I remained unconscious for the entire night. Not even a brimming bladder was enough to waken me. Just before I awoke, I had the most pleasant dreams imaginable. In the best of these dreams I was sitting down to eat an entire one of Freni’s meat loaves—all by myself.
Chapter Twenty
Freni’s Super-Duper Company Meat Loaf
Makes 8 servings
1 pound ultra lean ground beef
¼ pound ground pork
1 package onion soup mix
½ cup dry quick oats
2 raw eggs
2 tablespoons ketchup
¼ teaspoon ground black pepper
3 hard-boiled eggs, peeled
Thoroughly mix all ingredients except the eggs. In a nine-by-thirteen-inch glass baking dish, form an inch- high strip of mixture approximately three inches wide and eleven inches long. Space the three boiled eggs along this strip and cover them completely with remaining meat. Pat and smooth to seal in the eggs and give a nice uniform appearance. Bake at 350° F. for about 45 minutes. When slightly cool, slice with a sharp knife. Many of the resulting pieces will display a slice of hard- boiled egg for a colorful and attractive presentation.
Chapter Twenty-one
You can argue until you’re blue in the face, but you won’t convince me that Darla Strutt can act. The mumbling, fumbling, and stumbling teenage boys in my Sunday school class can act better than Darla. Maybe at one time Darla was something of a sensation, but they have yet to give out Academy Awards for that. Frankly, unless she slaps a cop, and soon, her days on the silver screen are numbered. Not that she has so many days left altogether.
Why is it that some women insist on lying about their age? Lies simply don’t make you look younger. If you’re going to lie about your age, then why not pretend you’re older. At least people will be impressed with how young you look for that age. If you’re forty, and look forty, then promote yourself as fifty. Strangers will be amazed at how well preserved you are. That is definitely the route to go if you want compliments.
Okay, I’ll admit it irked me that Darla, who was supposed to play my daughter-in-law in Art’s new script, was about my age or older. Actually, I hadn’t noticed that at first, because awe had kept me at more than an arm’s length. But during one of the scenes where we had to scream at each other with our faces just inches apart, I noticed that Darla’s face looked like plastic. Which, I guess, explains the name of those doctors that rearrange you. Anyway, it was suddenly obvious that in Darla’s case a lot of rearranging had gone on over the years. That Darla never smiled was now understandable. If she ever did smile, her boobs would undoubtedly bob up and down like fishing corks on a well-stocked pond.
My point is that Darla Strutt is an out-and-out fake, and she can sue me if she wants. But somehow, knowing that she was a fake made acting with her much easier.
“Don’t fluff your lines, toots, or your ass is grass,” she whispered meanly to me before our first scene together Monday morning. Then she proceeded to blow an enormous bubble with the gum she was chewing. The woman was more like my sister than I’d imagined.
“Chewing gum is a disgusting habit,” I informed her, “and blowing bubbles is even worse.”
“Oh, yeah?” Darla blew an even bigger bubble. If her head had been inside it, she would have looked like an astronaut.
I smiled sweetly at her, without bobbing my boobs one bit. Then, wielding a piece of straw, I punctured her bubble. There was a sound like a distant car backfiring, and Darla’s plastic face was covered with pink.
“Bitch!” she said.
Of course I couldn’t tolerate that. I don’t allow swearing in my presence, or on my premises, and Darla Strutt, aging Hollywood slut, had just violated both those conditions. I am not a violent person, and even if I were, I wouldn’t have hit the woman for fear that something would shatter. All the gum in Hernia couldn’t hold that face together.
I drew myself up to my full height. “You take that back!”
“Will not!” Darla dug into the pocket of her costume and brought out a packet of bubble gum. She proceeded to pop a few pieces into her mouth and began to chew as fast as she could. She chewed like a cow.
If you can’t lick them, join them, Papa used to say. Of course, his comments were in regard to joining the top horseshoe team at the annual church picnic. Nonetheless, I took Papa’s advice. I confess to snatching the gum packet from Darla’s hand and cramming a few pieces into my own mouth. Despite the fact that I was a novice at the disgusting habit, in a few minutes I had a bubble going that would make a cosmonaut proud.
Suddenly Darla’s entire attitude changed.
“Oh, are you from Pittsburgh?” she asked brightly.
I carefully deflated the bubble and discreetly removed the offensive gum from my mouth. “What?”
“Of course you’re from Pittsburgh, or at least from the burbs! I can tell by the way you blow. I was born in the city, but we moved to Penn Hills when I was in ninth grade. I was a cheerleader for Penn Hills High School. Say, didn’t you used to be Magdalena Brzezinski from Mt. Lebanon?”
“No.”
“I get it now. Maggie Hobbs from Northside Catholic?”
“Not hardly.”
“But you were a pom-pom girl, I know that. Gateway High?”
“Not even in my dreams.”
Darla’s face fell a little, and, not surprisingly, so did her bosom. “But you blow like a native Pittsburgher. Come on, you’ve got to at least be from Allegheny County!”
“I was born and raised on this farm, and in that house.” I nodded in the direction of the inn.
Darla stared at me in amazement. “Well, I’ll be,” she said at last. “I was sure you were from Pittsburgh. You could always move t
here, you know. With a bubble that size, you’d have quite a future. The sidewalks would be yours.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I still think Darla is a physical fake and a lousy actress, but after that brief encounter we became friends in an odd sort of way. Bubble buddies, you might say. Between takes we sat up in the hayloft and traded early-life anecdotes. Admittedly hers were a lot more interesting than mine, but since she seemed content to do most of the talking, it really was no problem. Only once did I give in to her repeated challenges and blow another bubble. That one was so huge, it had its own gravity.
“Are you sure you’re not from Pittsburgh?” she asked again, her voice full of admiration.
“Positive. But I’ve visited a couple of times. What about you? Ever been on a farm before?”
Darla shook her head. “Never. The first time I ever walked into a barn was when... ” Her voice trailed off and then she sat silent, staring ahead at the space beyond the edge of the loft.
“Was when what?” I asked patiently after some minutes had passed.
Darla shivered, then sat up very straight. “What’s that, dear?”
“You were about to tell me about the first time you ever walked into a barn,” I reminded her.
“Was I? Oh, yes. Unfortunately that was shortly after your sister found Don Manley’s body. We all came pouring into the barn then, remember?”
“Yes, of course.” But somehow I didn’t think that was it. I may have been stupid enough to copy from Melvin Stoltzfus’s exam paper when I was in elementary school, but I had wised up considerably since then. (If the trend holds, I just might refrain from asking Melvin’s help on my tax return next year.)
“I know what you’re thinking, Magdalena, but you’re wrong.” She sounded sincere, but not too sincere, if you know what I mean.
I tried to sound casual. “I was just wondering if it was possible that you wandered over to the barn before that unfortunate incident. You know, to get a closer look at the cows or something.”
Don’t be fooled by her glamorous image. Darla Strutt has a laugh that would put a drunken hyena to shame. “Me? Look at cows?”
