No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk

by Tamar Myers

  Almost instinctively, I dove for that pile of rancid hay and burrowed into it with the speed of a rabbit chased by a fox. Forget about heat loss. It was my need for something to be around me, other than blackness, that was my motivation. It was the same need that drove me under my covers every time a floorboard squeaked for over a year after Grandma’s death. And while it may not have been a pile of blankets, the mound of moldy hay was certainly an improvement over standing out in the open. I was just starting to breathe normally when an icy hand grabbed my foot.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I screamed loud enough to wake the dead in China. I yanked my captured foot, but whoever or whatever was holding it yanked back. I kicked at the restraining hand with my free foot, but to no avail. I screamed again. I writhed, kicked, and screamed, like a hog being trussed for market. Then I played dead.

  “A little late to play possum, don’t you think?” a muffled voice said, as the hand released me.

  My intent was to scramble out of the hay pile, but I barely had time to flex a leg muscle when the cold fingers closed around my ankle again.

  “Not so fast, Miss Yoder. You’re much safer in here than you are out there.”

  “Danny? Danny Hem?” Of course it was him. The odor of rancid hay is hard to describe, but it is nothing like bourbon.

  “Yeah, it’s me all right. Come on in.”

  “In where?”

  “In here.” Danny tugged again, and this time I cooperated by shooting backward on my belly.

  “Well, I’ll be,” I said, sitting up.

  I couldn’t see where I was, but I’ll describe it as a little room. A very little room. More like a big wooden box on its side. It was as dark as the inside of a dog’s stomach in there, and just as warm. Frankly, it must have smelled just as bad, what with the bourbon and an obviously unwashed Danny.

  “It isn’t the Hilton, but I made it myself,” Danny said proudly.

  “You?”

  “Yeah. Originally the hay was over in the corner, and this—”

  “This is an old wagon bed,” I said triumphantly.

  “Yeah, well, this was turned upside down, so I tipped it on its side. Then I moved the hay over here, and voila.”

  “You’re a master architect, Danny, but what on earth are you doing here in the first place? Slumming it a bit, aren’t we? No offense, but this isn’t exactly your lifestyle.”

  I could hear Danny swallow a sip of something. “Yeah, that’s just it. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. Went to bed one night—yeah, that same night we ate French—and woke up here.”

  “Did you drive?” I didn’t remember seeing a car outside, but then again, there could have been a fleet out front and we would have missed them.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, let’s see, dear, by my reckoning you’ve been here at least two days. Have you even bothered to step outside?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Never say can’t, dear,” I said, quoting Mama. “Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

  “Yeah, well, I tried that. Door’s locked.”

  I smiled patiently in the dark. Sometimes exercising the proper facial muscles can influence our speech. “The door isn’t locked, dear. Maybe it was just stuck. Stayrook and I had a hard time opening it just now because snow had frozen in the track.”

  He passed a loud, flammable belch. “Wasn’t snowing when I tried that, Miss Yoder. I could see that much through the hole in the roof.”

  I’d had enough of his quitter attitude. Susannah is like that. At the least little obstacle she flops down in a heap and declares the going impossible. Once, during the middle of a ten-mile Girl Scout hike, my sister literally threw herself on the ground, refusing to budge another step, and all because of some dinky blisters on one foot. After she was carried out, I told Susannah that the incident was her own fault for having worn high heels. The Girl Scouts simply told her they were going to get a new leader.

  “Danny, dear, persistence is obviously not your forte. I’m going to prove to you now that door isn’t locked.”

  So saying, I crawled out of our snug, but redolent, nest and braved the dark to the door. But try as I might, I couldn’t get the door to budge either. Even thinking about the time Rita Lantz won the spelling bee in fourth grade just because Miss Speicher couldn’t hear right—which still makes me so mad I can lift or move anything—didn’t work. That door was definitely stuck. Maybe even frozen shut by now.

  “So?” Danny asked, in an explosion of putrid fumes.

  “I bet we could open it if we worked together. Stayrook and I did.”

  He took a deep swig. “No use bothering now, is there? Makes more sense to wait until the storm blows over. Here, have some of this. It’ll help you relax.”

  He shoved a bottle at me, and I politely shoved it away. Alcohol is the devil’s drink, and I’m proud to say that not a single drop has passed these lips, except for that time I accidentally discovered Papa’s snakebite remedy in the cellar back home. Of course, that was really medicine, and so it doesn’t even count.

  “Suit yourself,” Danny said amiably. “There’s plenty here. Don’t know where it came from, but it’s here. Bourbon, scotch, vodka, you name it. Can’t read the labels, ’cause it’s dark, so you’re gonna have to taste around until you hit something you like.” He laughed wickedly. “But I’m not on the menu. Not unless you ask first.” He laughed again.

  “Why I never!”

  I scooted as far away from him and his lewd ideas as I could get. The wagon bed was about eight feet long, so I didn’t have to touch him. His bottles, however, were another story. They seemed to be rolling around everywhere.

  “Well, if I recall correctly, you never told me how you got here,” he slurred. “How the hell did you get here?”

  I thought of not answering, but I needed to do something to pass the time. Twiddling one’s thumbs, in the dark, while wearing mittens, is not entertaining.

  “You ought to know,” I snapped. “It was one of your employees who kidnapped me.”

  “Brenda? Brenda Jenkins?”

  “What?”

  “Was she wearing a black teddy? Last time Brenda kidnapped me—”

  “Can it, buster,” I said. “It was Arnold Ledbetter, your plant manager. And I didn’t see his underwear.”

  “Arnie? Little Arnie with the toupee? He kidnapped you?”

  “He had a gun, dear.”

  “He did? What kind?”

  “One that shoots bullets. How should I know? Anyway, he shot me.”

  I’d quite forgotten about that. The intense cold and the excitement had made me forget all about my grazed ear. I removed my right mitten and reached gingerly up to touch my ear. It hurt like the dickens. But then again, so did my left ear. Bare ears on a zero-degree night can lead to frostbite in no time.

  I tried to feel for blood, but all I could feel was cold. I smelled my fingertips, but they smelled like mittens, and, strangely, like whiskey. If my ears really were frostbitten, they might have to be surgically removed. Then my Pooky Bear wouldn’t be able to nibble on them, as I’d seen Susannah’s boyfriends nibble on hers. My potential loss suddenly seemed enormous. I began to cry.

  “Geez, Miss Yoder, just asking. You don’t have to tell me what kind of gun if you don’t want.”

  “And I’m still a virgin,” I wailed.

  “Yeah? Well, why didn’t you say so? A good-looking babe like you—imagine that! Not to worry, though— Danny boy’s here.”

  “And he’ll stay right where he is if he doesn’t want a job in the Vienna Boys’ Choir,” I said, exercising formidable restraint.

  “Ooh, tough talk. I’ve always liked that in a babe. Not like your sister at all.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Couldn’t even get to first base with her, man. All talk, but no action.”

  “Really?”

  “A total wipeout. Flirted something crazy, but screamed bloody m
urder the minute I laid a hand on her buttons. Stupid dog screamed too. Wanted to throw that stupid bitch across the room just to shut her up.”

  “You just watch your mouth! Susannah might not be perfect, but she’s the only sister I’ve got.”

  “Naw, I didn’t mean I wanted to throw your sister. I meant the dog. Snookie, or whatever.”

  “Shnookums is a male dog, not a bitch,” I said. “And watch how you talk about him as well. I’ve always been very fond of the little rascal.”

  Believe me, it is possible to choke on words. When I got done my throat was raw and dry and I was in desperate need of something liquid. I briefly considered scooping up some of the snow that had sifted in through the roof, but who knew where the bird droppings started and stopped. Without a proper light I was liable to ingest something that was hazardous to my health.

  “Hey, Danny,” I said casually, “do any of those bottles contain anything that could properly be considered medicinal?”

  He was too much of a gentleman to laugh, I’ll give him that. “Yeah, babe, think I’ve got something here. Yeah, here it is. Strawberry liqueur.”

  That sounded medicinal to me. Grandma Yoder, who was always tight with the sugar, made the tartest rhubarb pies imaginable. Even though I complained bitterly about eating them, Mama insisted that I did, on the grounds that rhubarb was good for me. Full of vitamins, she said. Of course, it wasn’t rhubarb pies I was being offered, but it was close. Every now and then Grandma, who was in her own way more flexible than Mama, would sneak a few strawberries into the pies to make them palatable. Ever since then I associate the two fruits with medicine.

  I took a mouthful of the proffered medicine and promptly spit it out. It is no wonder the Indians called it firewater.

  “This is horrible,” I choked. “My grandma’s rhubarb pies were better than this.”

  Danny laughed. “I prefer straight whiskey myself. Liqueur is for sipping, not gulping. And if you think that’s strong, try this.”

  I don’t know what made me try the next bottle. Intense stress, extreme cold, high anxiety? They were all valid reasons. Maybe underneath it all it really was the devil making me do it. At any rate, I did it. I joined Danny Hem in his bottle ballet. And no, I’m not proud of it, I’m simply stating the facts. Being totally honest. But you must also understand that since that night, I have never taken a sip of anything stronger than vanilla extract. And that was only to check for freshness.

  “You still maintain you have no recollection of getting here?” I asked amiably. I’d finally latched on to a bottle that wasn’t half bad. Something Danny called Baileys.

  “Not a clue. Maybe Arnie brought me as well.”

  “Probably. How well do you know the guy?”

  “Not well. He worked for my uncle, so he was here when I got here. Only he’s a hard guy to get to know.”

  “You can say that again. Why’d you keep him on, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Well, I, uh—I don’t know a whole lot about the business, Miss Yoder—”

  “Magdalena.”

  “What?”

  “You can call me Magdalena.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks. Anyway, I’m not too good at business details, and Arnie is, so I just let him run things like as usual.”

  “Says who?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “You look at old records? Check the books?”

  He took a long swig. “That’s important, isn’t it?”

  “Only if you want to stay in business. What involvement, if any, did you have with the business end?”

  “I signed checks.”

  “What kind of checks?”

  “My paychecks.”

  I took a ladylike sip. “That’s it?”

  “I signed other checks, too. And documents. Things Arnie brought me.”

  That was worth two sips. “Did you at least read the things Arnold brought you?”

  He didn’t answer until I gave him a businesslike kick. “Naw. Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hey, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Come on, Magdalena, I trusted the guy. He was there on the scene before I arrived, remember? If my uncle trusted him, that was good enough for me.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “But he was there. That much I do know.”

  It took three sips in a row then to keep a civil tongue in my head. “What I mean is, don’t count on the fact that your uncle trusted Arnold. He may have been keeping a close eye on him.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe I have been a little lax since I took over.”

  “Understatement of the year,” I said generously.

  “But I didn’t sign the last document Arnold brought me,” he said proudly. “That one I read.”

  “Oh? What was it?”

  “The deed. The deed to Daisybell Dairies.”

  “Good boy! You realize, of course, that not signing that deed is the only thing that has kept you alive.”

  “Huh?”

  “Danny, dear, as soon as Arnie gets your signature on that deed, it’s curtains for you. Now I, on the other hand, don’t even have a piece of paper to keep me alive.”

  It was a sobering thought. We sat in silence while he swigged his whiskey and I nursed my medicine. To repay his generosity, I shared the crazy cake in my purse and the rolls in my pockets. After a while it began to get very warm in our hideaway. So warm that I took off my coat and rolled it up for a pillow. The day’s exertions had finally caught up with me, and I was having a hard time staying awake.

  “Keep an ear open for Stayrook,” I said. “I’m feeling a bit drowsy and might nod off now, if that’s all right with you.”

  Arnold answered me with a loud snore.

  Chapter Thirty

  Freni Hostetler’s Poor Man’s Goulash

  1 pound lean ground beef

  1 large onion, diced

  Olive oil

  2 celery stalks, cut into slivers

  1 can condensed tomato soup lh can water

  ½ cup tomato ketchup

  1 teaspoon paprika

  ¼ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

  1 bay leaf

  Salt and pepper to taste

  1 pound noodles or elbow macaroni

  Brown meat and onion together in a little olive oil. Stir in remaining ingredients and simmer over low heat approximately 25 minutes. Stir occasionally, adding water if necessary.

  Cook noodles or macaroni in salted water until almost tender. Drain. Fold into goulash mixture and simmer an additional five minutes.

  Serves four.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I was rudely awakened by Susannah screaming. I knew at once that I wasn’t dreaming. I also knew conclusively that the screamer was Susannah. Her screams, at their zenith, have been known to curdle milk and put the hens off laying. There is even one documented case in Hernia in which one of Susannah’s screams stunted an apple tree and caused another to stop bearing for several years—just why Susannah was screaming in an orchard, I have yet to find out. At any rate, her vocal range is inimitable, and therefore immediately identifiable.

  I stuck my head outside the straw, and sure enough, there was Susannah, screaming her head off. Her back was turned to me, but she was draped in the familiar yards of filmy fabric, her only wrap the polyester leopard-skin cape that was sheer enough to strain chicken soup. On her feet were those ridiculous clog sandals. That I could see her was due to the fact that there was now light coming through the hole in the roof. It also appeared that the snow had stopped.

  Susannah was the only person I could see, but I couldn’t just materialize out of a hay pile and say howdy, or could I? Once I came home late from a church youth conference, just aching to hit the sack, and when I pulled back my covers, there was Susannah pretending to be my pillows. Everything I’d learned that weekend about love and forgiveness went immediately out the window. Susannah would have followed, except that Mama just happened
to be walking by my door.

  I waited patiently for the screams to subside, and when, after a reasonable length of time, they didn’t, I gently tapped her on the shoulder. Of course I had to wait again.

  “Put a sock in it, dear,” I said kindly, after all other attempts to calm her had failed. You wouldn’t believe the severity of my headache.

  “How could you?” she screamed. Actually she screamed it several times, but only the last time was decipherable.

  “How could I what? How else was I supposed to get your attention? Tackle you?”

  “How could you be a part of this?” she wheezed.

  “A part of what?”

  “Don’t play coy, Mags. You’re here, aren’t you? How much did Marvin pay you to be part of his little kidnapping scheme? Or are you doing it for free, just because you hate me?”

  That hurt. I do not hate my sister. In fact, I’m pretty sure I love her. She is, after all, my flesh and blood. Just because I’m not normally fond of her is no reason for her to feel unloved. Unfortunately, there were more important issues than our relationship to discuss just then.

  “You mean Marvin Stoltzfus kidnapped you and brought you out here?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t, dear. I was kidnapped myself. By Arnold Ledbetter. Stayrook was kidnapped too. We managed to escape and ended up here. Stayrook went for help in the blizzard, but hasn’t come back yet. But I would expect him any minute now, now that the storm has passed.”

  “Ha! Tell me another, Mags. I suppose Danny Hem was kidnapped too.”

  I nodded. “Actually he was. He’s sleeping there in the hay.”

  “Funny, I don’t see him.”

  I pointed out the hay clinging to my dress. “We have a hideaway back there. In an old wagon bed. That’s where we spent the night.”