Whoopie Pie Secrets

by Rebecca Price

  Sure it did, I think to myself. And I’m Britney Spears.

  “I’m gonna leave you two alone,” Lilly says to us both, nervously shaking her head and pretending she’d said too much. “I just wanted to say hi, and, well, try to patch things up. I shouldn’t have disturbed you...in your state...I do apologize.”

  In my state?!

  Simon eases me back, reading my body language - ready to lunge. “We’ll talk to you later, Lilly, thanks.”

  With a nasty little smirk, this two-faced little schemer turns, flipping her head in its own miniature insult.

  In the lingering awkwardness following her exit, which she also no doubt had planned, Simon and I stammer to regain our easy conversation. “I, um, I’m really sorry about that,” he says.

  “It’s okay, it’s not your fault, obviously. And all that about my family being crazy, you don’t believe that?” Simon shakes his head, but says nothing, which troubles me. I go on, “We’re not crazy, Simon,” even though my own recent reflections on the same subject matter told me a different story.

  No point into getting into all that now. The main thing is, I’m not crazy, and I’m the one he’s in love with. I hope. On both counts.

  I finally do ask him, “Did you know him, my granduncle?”

  Simon considers it for a moment, nodding a bit as he sifts through his memories. “We didn’t see much of him after his wife passed. What happened to him in those years, could have happened to anyone, given enough sadness, enough time alone.”

  My mind is blurred with terrible images, of a granduncle I hadn’t seen since I was a child, staggering around that empty house like some crotchety old ghoul.

  “But I promise that will never happen to you, Hannah. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  A knot tightens in my gut. “But...what if you don’t have anything to say about it?”

  Simon smiles, unconcerned, as he kisses me on the forehead. “Then you will.”

  * * *

  Simon drops me off in his own carriage, giving me a full, confident kiss after helping me down and setting me on my feet. It’s the perfect little picture of our meeting, or our feelings, of our future.

  I stand for a moment or two and watch his carriage roll off, thinking about him in a pleasant, unhurried manner. No reason not to linger over the imagined visions of our children, the holidays we’ll host, the friends we’ll make, the place we’ll have in the community. These are blessings, wonderful things, and there’s no reason not to enjoy anticipating them.

  It will make having them all the sweeter.

  I take my memories and my visions of the future silently with me into the house. As I step inside there’s a certain tenor, a certain vibe in the house, that drives any pleasant imagining out of my mind and heart.

  And they’re replaced quickly, with dread and worry and nervousness.

  Our family traditions.

  I call out, “Abram? Mamm? What’s going on?”

  Only silence answers me, and it tells me both nothing at all and too much entirely. But when my Daed and Mamm step down the stairs, their expressions tell me that there’s more to the story, and that I’m not going to enjoy a bit of it.

  “What is it?” I ask. “What’s happened?”

  But they just stare at me, my daed’s face wrapped around his broad frown, eyes cold and poisonous. My mamm just walks behind him, holding onto him as if to keep her from falling straight to the floor.

  “Talk to me,” I say, louder than I mean to and noting the growing frenzy in my tone. “What’s the matter with you two?”

  But they just drift past me, mute ghosts, echoes of horrors that have only just passed and are still to come. The deathly silence surrounds me, squeezing me like some ungodly fist, compressing me in its immortal clutch. And I stand in the heaving worry, the increasing and irresistible constriction that pushes the breath right out of me, but leaves any words trapped within.

  Finally, Abram appears from the hallway. I’m relived to see him, as always - my only friend in the family, the one I can count on.

  “Abram, what happened? Is it Rebecca?”

  In a whispered hush, Abram says, “She was teaching her class, when the kids started snickering at her.”

  “Snickering? Why?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not very funny, but they were giggling, I guess.” I thought about Lilly, about how obvious it was to me that she’s been spreading rumors about me, about our family, about Rebecca among the kids during Lilly’s volunteer craft sessions.

  “Anyway,” Abram goes on, “I hear she got really upset, started asking them why they were laughing. But they wouldn’t say. And the more they laughed, the more upset she got, demanding to know why, which made them laugh even more. And then...”

  “I get it,” I say, unable to stand imagining this scene any longer - my poor, tortured sister finally falling to pieces in front of a classroom of snickering little kids.

  “No, you don’t,” Abram says. “She fell apart, screaming and crying; they say she crumbled up on the floor, sobbing.”

  “That’s enough, Abram!”

  “Hey, it isn’t my fault!”

  “You’re not saying it’s my fault?”

  The moment of tension crackles between us, the first such outburst in our entire lives. Only a second passes before I wrap my arms around him and pull him close, pressing my cheek against his. “I’m sorry, Abram, I’m so sorry...”

  “S’okay, Hannah, S’awright.”

  “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to yell at you, not at you...”

  “S’all right, Hannah, really.”

  But I won’t let go. I hold on tight, to my kid brother and to the bond we share and to the only thing in the family I can still count on, that I can still understand.

  Which reminds me of all the other things I still don’t know and can’t understand.

  “How is she?”

  Abram shrugs. “I dunno, she’ll be fine, I guess. That’s what Mamm says.”

  “Hannah,” she says from the other room, “can you come in here please?”

  I look at Abram. “Speak of the devil.” He chuckles a bit as we both walk slowly toward the kitchen together.

  Once inside, my parents glare at me, and then, at exactly the same time, turn their sites on Abram. “See to your chores, boy,” my Daed croaks out.

  Abram pauses, hesitating. He looks up at me, sensing the gravity of the moment, the sense of approaching doom that fills the little room. But I look down at him and he up at me, and we both know that it’s for him to do as he’s told, that I can handle this, whatever it is.

  Abram walks out of the kitchen and I turn and face my accusers.

  My parents.

  My daed says, “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  I stand for a moment, letting their misdirected fury swirl for a while, allowing it build up so that, if I have to, I can let it snap back against them. I already consider myself beyond their reproach.

  Finally, I say, “I hope my sister’s okay. I can’t imagine why she...”

  “You can’t imagine?” Mamm says. “Hannah, you know very well why Rebecca had this breakdown.”

  Then they stare at me a moment longer. But prolonging this misery is fast getting out of control. I decide it’s time to face some of these things head-on.

  All of them, if necessary.

  I say, “Okay, you’re right, why should any of us turn a blind eye toward this misery any longer?”

  “Finally you’ve come to your senses,” Daed says.

  “I was just going to say the same thing to you.” They look at me with a quick surprise. I go on to say, “Well, I thought for sure you’d finally come to grips with how the amount of pressure you’ve put on Rebecca all these years, shooting down all her possible romances, locking her away like some china doll...”

  “You think this is our fault?” Mamm asks me.

  “Of course it is,” I say. “You’re terrible parents and
you’ve absolutely demented that poor girl. My God, I can’t believe you still can’t see it...”

  “Don’t you blaspheme in my house, girl,” Daed says.

  “That’s not my name,” I snap back, “and I’m not a girl, I’m a woman. I’m twenty-one years old, and the only reason I haven’t left before this is because I can’t stand to leave Abram behind in the clutches of a brute!”

  Daed repeats, “A brute?”

  “Hannah,” Mamm says, “have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “You’re the one who attacked your sister,” Daed says, pointing a huge, calloused, angry finger into my face. “You’re the one bringing naked men onto my property, tormenting her, you little slut!”

  This hurts. Untrue as it is, coming from somebody I already don’t care for.

  It still hurts.

  My mamm says, “You’re jealous, you’ve always been jealous of your older sister. She’s taller, prettier ...”

  “You love her more.”

  “Hannah, don’t interrupt your mother.”

  “When she stops blathering like a nutter,” I say, “maybe I will. In the meantime, I am not going to stand here and be insulted.”

  “That’s right,” Daed says, “you’re not going to stand here at all.” He reaches out, grabbing me by the upper arm. He drags me across the house, my feet tripping under me but managing to keep me up as we approach the front door. But I don’t struggle. I don’t resist.

  I don’t want to stay. The sooner he throws me out, the better.

  But the frenzied journey from welcome to outcast is still a jarring, chaotic journey. My arm hurts under the hateful grip of my vengeful father’s hateful squeeze. The inside of the house peels back from over me and the sky opens up. The door swings open in his other fist, then a hard shove sends me toppling out onto the porch.

  I spin, barely managing to stay on my feet, and turning back to face the house just in time to see the door slam behind me. Muttered voices are muffled behind that door, which I know will never be opened to me again.

  I stand for a moment, frozen in the overwhelming clamp of aloneness, the vacuous, stifling environment of ultimate isolation. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and the love of my brother, still locked behind the castle walls.

  I never even got to say goodbye.

  So I turn. I take a single step. Then another. Little by little, I make my way further from the tortured past that still manages to deliver me to the cusp of a journey that I’ve already begun, and which provides no turning back. I must keep going, step by step, words from Mark 6:11 echoing in my memory.

  And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you, leave that place and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  So I walk. I walk because I have no ride. But I walk a while before I realize that I have no idea where I’m walking to. I mean, I know who I’m walking toward: Simon. But I don’t know where he lives! I’ve never been to his house, and I don’t know anybody in town I can trust who does know where he lives.

  And I never got his phone number!

  So I just keep walking. After an hour, I feel like I might be slipping out of Lancaster County. But I have no reason to think I’m getting any closer to Simon, just farther away; from my brother, my family, my past, myself.

  Until Simon himself says, “Hannah,” as he pulls his horse carriage up behind me.

  “Simon! This must be God’s will.”

  Simon steps out and we hug, arms wrapping tightly around one another. We kiss, our lips meeting one another in a joyous reunion. Simon says, “I don’t doubt that it’s God’s will, but it’s easy to see his methods this time around.” I look at him for a confused moment before he adds, “I called and your brother told me what had happened. I knew I’d find you within a certain area.”

  “Well, thanks for sucking the mystery right out of it.”

  “Doesn’t mean there isn’t still plenty of mystery left for us to investigate together.” Simon smiles, nods, and helps me into the carriage. He crosses in front of Hazel, his mare, and takes his place behind the reins.

  Beside me. With Simon's shake of the reins, the horse starts off, pulling us down the road. Together.

  We get back to his farm and recline on the porch swing, the stars twinkling calm above us, elevated beyond our petty worries and little spites.

  I say, “I...I just don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Nothing, Hannah, that’s what you should make of it.”

  “But...how can I? I mean, some things you just can’t ignore, right?”

  Then I notice Simon nodding a bit.

  Oh, you dummy, I scold myself, good work! You love him, and you need him, and you know you want to be with him. And then you direct his attention exactly toward the very problem that might drive him away. Play it down!

  I say, “I mean, we all have our little foibles, right?”

  “No, right, of course.”

  “And what happened to Rebecca, that’s not any kind of genetic thing. Our parents have driven her mad, that’s easy to see. I’m sure Lilly’s gossiping among the children went a long way toward her current condition as well.”

  “Um, yes, I know kids can be cruel,” Simon says, nodding.

  “Oh, come on, Simon, you must know it was Lilly, feeding their heads full of Lord knows what kind of nonsense that made them treat my sister that way.”

  “Now, we don’t want to be paranoid about it either, Hannah.”

  “Paranoid? You’re not saying that I’m crazy now too?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “But you are saying my sister is crazy.”

  “Hannah, she obviously had a breakdown of some kind. It’s okay, there’s no shame in it, and no blame either. Not for Lilly, or for your parents...”

  “That’s very generous of you,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest without being entirely sure why. But it feels right, so I go with it. “I’m not sure I can be so forgiving. In any case, it’s nothing to do with us. I mean, she’s my family, of course, but we have our own lives to lead, right.”

  Simon considers it, staring off for a moment. Suddenly he seems a million miles away, barely holding onto our moment together. “We do have our own lives to lead,” I repeat, adding, “together...right?”

  After just a fraction of a second too long, Simon says, “Yes, Hannah, of course.”

  “You’re starting to believe it,” I say, “all this nonsense about my family being crazy.”

  Simon holds his hands out, but he can’t stop me this time, although I am desperate for him to keep trying. “Hannah, I love you, and I don’t care about any of the rest of it.”

  “Any of the...do you think I’m from some mad clan of lunatics or not?”

  Simon looks around the porch, as if the answer might be written in a corner of the roof, or tattooed in the inside of this eyelids as he closes them, pressing his fingers to his forehead.

  Oh no, I realize, I’m annoying him with this. Maybe he didn’t think we were so crazy off until I started going on about it, drawing his attention to it more and more. I mean, I have my own doubts, about my parents at least, and my sister, I can’t deny it now. How can I blame Simon for sharing those doubts, or having them even more so?

  Of course he doubts, I realize, and of course I do, because to any reasonable observer we do seem like a passel of maniacs - my screaming hermit granduncle, my soulless daed, my unstable sister.

  What about me? I have to ask myself, sitting in the stillness of Simon’s porch, and of his doubt. I’ve never felt crazy.

  Until now.

  But all of a sudden I feel the icy grip of the family madness upon me: the denial, the isolation, the delusion. I’m not sure what’s what anymore, or who is who. And why would this fine young man want to marry into a family of lunatics anyway? I now have to ask myself. That little snip Lilly was right, and she’ll probably marry Simon now.

  Probably
better off for him if he does.

  “Hannah,” he says quietly, “are you all right?”

  What?

  “What?”

  “You’re white as a sheet, Hannah.”

  My head is swimming, my mouth goes dry. I try to push a few words out, but I fail miserably, just able enough to push myself to my feet and stagger into his house, letting the screen door close behind me.

  “Hannah? Hannah?!”

  He disappears behind me and the living room wraps around me like a big, boxy coffin. I don’t have anywhere to go now, so I feel like I may as well just lay down and be buried here. Why go on? No family. No love. No past. No future.

  “What is it, child?”

  I turn to see Simon’s Gramm standing in the doorway. She is little, stooped, but her expression is not dimmed. She’s concerned, the patterns of the lines in her face pointing downward to tell me so. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  I try to tell her, but instead just find myself shuffling toward her, my arms reaching feebly for hers and finally finding them. I begin to cry, all the pressure and anxiety spilling out of me in one rattling stream of tears and croaked sobs. She taps my back with her bony hands, her gravelly voice whispering comforting nothings into my ear as she guides me back to the sanctuary of her room.

  The room smells strongly of potpourri, herbs and rose petals clinging invisibly to the air around us. She sits me down on her bed, one of our own famed quilts draped over the cotton sheets.

  She says, “What troubles you, child?”

  “What troubles me?” I repeat. Where do I begin?

  So I search the spattering of images that have been haunting me, barraging me.

  I say to her, “Gramm, am I...am I fighting God?” She looks at me, her head tilting as if to figure out what I’m saying, even though they are her own words. I add, “I...I used to think that I wasn’t, but...but now I just don’t know.”

  She brushes one old, withered hand against my cheek, I can feel my tear catching on her fingertip, carried away by her gentle, soothing strokes.

  Gramm leans closer to me and says, “Your granduncle...he fight God. Daed and Mamm, they fight God.” I feel a stream of relief running down my spine, filling my stomach and my heart with a calming, soothing feeling that seems to emanate from old Grandmother Troyer herself.