by Tamar Myers
‘Praying mantis?’ I croaked, for my throat was as dry as an Amish home’s wood-burning stove.
‘That’s right; how did you know what I was going to say?’
‘Get inside!’ I shrieked. ‘Now!’
Joyce needed no more encouragement than that. She seemed to move intuitively on my heels. I dived through the French doors, threw myself on the bed and scooped up Little Jacob, after which I clasped him to my heaving excuse for a bosom. Meanwhile, Joyce locked the French doors behind her and shoved a large oak armoire in front of them.
I had just finished locking the main door to my bedroom when we heard the thump overhead. Having grown up in this house, or an exact reproduction thereof, I am familiar with its many means of expression: moans, groans, creaks, screeches and scrabbling sounds. These noises have been traced back to tree branches, sagging timbers and various animal species such as: raccoons, squirrels, doves, pigeons, cats, bats and even a family of opossums.
‘Miss Yoder,’ Joyce whispered, ‘tell me what is going on. If I am going to be scared out of my wits I at least deserve to know why.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Here’s the real deal. The so-called Earl of Grimsley-Snodgrass is really a serial killer named Melvin Stoltzfus.’
‘No way!’
‘And not only that,’ I said, for I always enjoy exposition, no matter how dangerous the moment, ‘but Melvin also happens to be my half-brother, through our birth mother, Elvina Stoltzfus, who almost let her precious son kill me.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘You poor, misplaced child,’ I said.
‘Then you’re not kidding! Spit it all out, Miss Yoder, because I can’t take it in dribs and drabs.’
‘OK, but hold on, toots, because it’s not a pretty picture. That murderous, maniacal, monocle-wearing mantis, Melvin, is my brother-in-law through his marriage to my baby sister, Susannah. There are those who say that she is even more eccentric than I am, based partly on her penchant for carrying around a miniature Yorkshire terrier in her brassiere. To be fair, she has currently abandoned the practice of packing a pup in her bra because she’s serving time in the big house for aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice. That is to say, she’s in prison. Oh, did I mention that, although Susannah was born to my adoptive parents, she and Melvin are my second and third cousins respectively? In other words, we’re a scary bunch.’
‘No offense, Miss Yoder,’ Joyce said, and I could hear her teeth chatter from where she stood in the middle of the room, ‘but I just want to go home.’
‘So do I, dear, and I am home.’
‘What do we do now? Call nine-one-one?’
‘And tell the dispatcher that we heard a thump overhead while we were cowering in an old farmhouse? Besides, I am the go-to-person for emergencies in Hernia. It’s me and Toy.’
‘Then call Toy. Please, Miss Yoder?’
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t do it to be mean; I did it partly in resignation and partly as a way to relieve stress. But just as I did so, the knob to the interior door of my bedroom began to turn. My eyes must have widened, as well as rolled, because Joyce whirled round.
The scream that Joyce produced was worthy of a six-year-old girl. Any keen observer of the human condition can testify that such a scream is far superior to the usually touted nine-year-old example. I couldn’t help but scream in response. As for Little Jacob, the tyke had had no option but to follow suit.
Each person’s vocalizations only served to rev up the other two, so that the bedlam in my bedroom reached decibels of truly frightening magnitude. One might imagine how much more frightened we were when we noticed that a man in a clown suit suddenly materialized on the deck just outside the French doors. The clown’s greasepaint mouth was an upside-down smile, and in each hand he grasped a headless, life-size baby doll which he pumped rhythmically up and down. When he saw that he had our attention, the clown tossed the dolls aside and began to do what is called ‘break-dancing.’ It is an activity in which the performers appear to be demonically possessed. If you ask me, it is quite possible that they are.
I knew that the person in the clown suit was not my half-brother, the deranged Melvin Stoltzfus. For one thing, the man on the deck had rhythm. My nitwit, serial-killing sibling couldn’t take three steps without tripping over his own shadow four times. For another thing, it is darn hard to fake a sturdy neck. When this fellow got down and spun on his white clown pate, as if he were a round-bottomed top, I was a thousand percent sure that he wasn’t Melvin. The clown and I shared absolutely no DNA – not that such a thing as DNA exists, mind you.
‘Close the drapes,’ I managed to yell even as I dove for them myself, all the while keeping Little Jacob as safe as a dozen eggs in the crook of my arm.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Both bedroom doors were locked and the heavy deck drapes had been pulled. For an illusory moment my world felt safe and familiar again. Then I began to imagine that I heard my half-brother, Melvin Stoltzfus, breathing just outside the interior bedroom door, the one that was connected by a short hallway to the kitchen. The psychopath Melvin has a deviated septum, the result of his sheer stupidity. How else can one explain a farmer’s son who tried to milk a bull and then got kicked in the head for his efforts?
Melvin was stupid enough to try anything; that’s what made him truly dangerous. But Melvin was also a coward and a loner; he was unlikely to work with outsiders who dressed as clowns. On the other hand, I had to hand it to him for hiring a down-on-its-luck Shakespearean theatre troupe. The Melvin whom I thought that I knew was now much more sophisticated in his thinking, and therefore unpredictable.
Lord, I prayed silently, please help us. That really was Melvin just outside the bedroom door. But what was he waiting for? Was he trying to toy with me like a cat with its prey? Undoubtedly that was it: Melvin knew how to force his way in somehow, and the waiting was part of my torture.
Then the breathing stopped. That’s when dread crept up my spine like a line of whiskery cockroaches feeling their way out of a greasy drain. Dread didn’t have cold fingers; dread was hundreds of hot, pricking feet that climbed up my back and my neck, then across my scalp, making every hair stand at attention, leaving my cheeks smouldering in its wake. Dread settled in my eye sockets where it burned, forcing out hot liquid from eyes that seldom, if ever, saw tears. Magdalena Portulacca Yoder Rosen never cried out of pity, or sadness, but she might cry if she was afraid for her child. Little Jacob was everything.
But then the grip of dread was broken by laughter. High-pitched giggles really. It was the type of sound one might expect to hear emanating from a demon’s mouth in Hell. Yet it was coming from the plump red lips of Joyce Toestubber and not one of Satan’s minions – or was it? The Bible warns us that Satan and his angels are capable of assuming any shape or size, and I am firmly convinced that at least one of the American Presidential primary election candidates hails from the Devil’s fiery kingdom.
‘What issss it?’ I hissed, with enough s’s to make up for at least a few bestselling writers’ shortcomings.
‘You had me going for a while there, Miss Yoder, you really did. I almost believed you about the earl being a serial killer, and all because he has a head like a bobble doll and eyes like a dragonfly. Oh, well, then there’s your acting ability. Props to you, Miss Yoder. You have what it takes, and I mean that. Of course, you’re too old to be a leading lady, but you definitely could carve out a niche for yourself as a character actress, what with your – uh – unique look.’
Like I said before, flattery will get me almost anywhere, apparently even close to being dead. I momentarily forgot about everything except for my less-than-perfect appearance.
‘What’s wrong with my look, missy?’ I demanded.
‘Are you familiar with the painting Whistler’s Mother?’ Joyce said.
‘Yes,’ I growled. ‘I may be a Philistine but I’m neither a hayseed nor a rube.’
‘Well, to be honest, the way y
ou dress – that’s what people call you behind your back.’
‘They call me Whistler’s Mother?’ I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, despite everything else that was going on.
Joyce’s giggles turned into guffaws. ‘Really, Miss Yoder, you’re too sensitive! I paid you a compliment when I said that you were a good actress. As far as your clothes go, with your kind of money you can change out of those fuddy-duddy duds for some really cool things without leaving the privacy of this room. But you have to tell me why it is that you’re so freaked out by a clown showing up at your patio door.’
I jiggled both pinkies simultaneously in my ears in order to make sure that I was hearing correctly. Alas, both cartilage protuberances were in perfect working order. The woman was bananas – certifiably crazy.
‘He’s no ordinary clown, don’t you see? That man out there is one of murderous Melvin’s accomplices!’
‘Ah, come on, Miss Yoder,’ Joyce said. ‘No offense, but I think that you’re being paranoid. I bet that clown is really just Michael Tugonitvich, whom you happen to know as Viscount Rupert or Mr Sebastian – depending on which role he is playing.’
‘What? So you’re in on this too?’
That slip of a girl, who was barely out of her teens, had the effrontery to toss her head like a thoroughbred mare. I will say this, however: she needed to work on her snort if she were to compete with moi.
‘I’ll say it again, Miss Yoder; you are paranoid.’
‘Paranoid? You think that I’m being paranoid?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and now I think that you’re being hysterical as well.’
‘Me?’ I shrieked as tears of frustration washed down my cheeks. ‘How dare you say that?’
I’ll say one good thing about the males in my family: neither of them can stand it when one of their two females cries. The elder male is quick to comfort with his strong, encircling arms, whereas his progeny is prone to throw back his oversized toddler head and wail like a banshee from a Sherlock Holmes novel.
Joyce Toestubber clapped her hands over her ears. She strode back to the drapes that hid the French doors and freed one hand long enough to pull on the drapery cord. The other hand dropped to her side when she saw that the clown, whom she’d thought was her friend Michael Tugonitvich, was now inches from the left panel of glass. Both his fists were tightly clenched, and at shoulder level. In one he gripped a butcher’s cleaver, and in the other a small hand axe. Although his forehead was pressed against the pane, the sad clown’s mouth hung open and his shockingly long tongue hung loose. It could have been a dog’s tongue or even a donkey’s tongue, except that the clown’s tongue had been pierced with a gold stud. Then, as Joyce and I stood watching like a pair of transfixed fools, the crazed clown began wagging that awful appendage from side to side, as if it were the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
‘Miss Yoder,’ Joyce whispered, for now even Little Jacob seemed eerily mesmerized by the evil sight, ‘if that is Michael, then he isn’t the same Michael that I knew. Your brother has obviously gotten to him.’
‘Look here, toots,’ I said, my Christianity momentarily deserting me, ‘don’t you be laying that one on me. You claimed that Michael was your friend. Now do something!’
Unfortunately, Joyce didn’t even have time to swallow before we heard what sounded like fingernails raking the length of the other bedroom door. We leaped backward as if we’d been splashed with droplets of acid.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I grabbed the bull by the horns.
‘Melvin,’ I called, ‘is this you?’
‘Huh?’
‘I know it is you, Mely-kins,’ I said, using Susannah’s disgusting term of endearment for her husband. ‘What is it that you want this time?’
‘Baby,’ Melvin said.
‘Excuse me?’ I said.
‘You forgot to add baby to my name, Magdalena. My Sweetykins never forgets that.’
‘It’s really him,’ I mouthed to Joyce. ‘It’s the maniac monster.’
The look on Joyce’s face was one of confusion. No doubt she wondered how even a skilled actor could pull off such a convincing British accent – despite the occasional gaff like rally – and still sound like such a pathetic nincompoop of a Pennsylvanian. Clearly she needed more convincing.
‘Pretend you’re saying sweet nothings to Susannah in a posh English accent,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll know that it’s really you; I’ll fling open the door and extend my long gangly arms in a wide embrace.’
As I put no time frame on the door opening, or the arm flinging, strictly speaking, what I’d said to Melvin was not a lie. Also, I have become more or less convinced that Melvin began life as an identical twin and that he absorbed his brother in utero, as sometimes happens. However, while becoming Melvin’s breakfast, lunch and supper for nine months, his identical twin absorbed Melvin’s brain. This theory of mine explains so much, and I do not wish to be dissuaded of it by such a shaky thing as science.
‘Oh, my dahlin’ Susannah,’ said Melvin, ‘sweet nothings, sweet nothings, sweet nothings.’
‘The man has a brilliant imagination,’ I said.
‘Yoder,’ Melvin whined, ‘are you being sarcastic?’
‘Indeed, I am.’
‘Yoder,’ he said again, ‘you could at least thank me for my gift.’
‘What gift would that be, Lord Smuttbottom?’ I said.
‘Hey,’ Melvin whined, ‘you don’t have to be mean just because I want to kill you. After all, I did supply the answer to the riddle of what happened to that Japanese girl. I even gave you the answer twice. What more could you want?’
‘Hmm, let me see, dear. How about a padded wagon and four strong men to carry you away? You, pretending to be the earl, dropped your passport – wait! What did you mean when you said that you gave me the answer to the riddle twice?’
‘I meant that I wrote those lines for that scrawny little actress, Joyce. You know, when she supposedly has a conversation with Yoko-san herself. Right there, as plain as daylight, I let you know how that Japanese tourist died and where she’s been all this time. But did you even bother to listen? Ha, and you say that you believe in ghosts, Yoder.’
‘You’re right,’ Joyce Toebuster whispered. ‘It really is him.’ Having been persuaded that Melvin and the earl were one and the same, she proved to be a woman of action. She grabbed one of my elbows and tried to yank me away from the door. Now, we Yoders may be tall and spindly or low and roly-poly, but the odds are that we have ankles like tree stumps. It takes a mahout and his mount to move me when I’m sufficiently motivated to stand my ground.
‘OK, Melvin, let’s say that you recognize the evilness of your deeds. You killed the very personable young lady from Japan who said that she loved everything Mennonite and Amish. Why did you do this? What was your motivation?’
I could hear the murderous mantis mashing his mandibles in frustration. ‘I did it for you, Yoder. She caught me relieving you of some of your excessive wealth, on account of the Bible that says it’s hard for the rich to get into Heaven. So I was just helping you out a little bit, that’s all.’
That got me so steamed up that I almost slapped Joyce. Then again, I am a peaceful, Mennonite woman who wouldn’t hurt a male mosquito. By the by, they’re the large mosquitoes; they don’t bite.
‘When and where did this happen?’ I demanded.
‘Oh, don’t get so bent out of shape, Yoder. It happened years ago when I was Police Chief. I knew that you kept piles of cash down in the old root cellar beneath the parlour, the same place that you keep the village records. I am married to your sister, who grew up in the same house – well, close enough. The things that she and I would do down there—’
‘Shut up, Melvin!’ Joyce bellowed. This time the strength and timbre of her voice caught me off guard and she succeeded in yanking me into the master bath. ‘What are we going to do?’ she demanded when we were safely out of earshot. ‘You collected our cell phones when we
checked in, remember? You claimed that having them would invalidate our authentic Amish experience. And when I went out to make tea for you, like I was a slave or something, I saw your phone lying on the island. You’d better have a landline.’
I wrenched free from her grip. ‘Calm down, dear. I did have a landline – but you know how the phone company is with their layered fees, and the constant sales calls—’
‘Really, dear,’ I said in my most soothing manner, ‘you could have an aneurism or something if you keep this level of tension up. I once had to force castor oil down the throat of a constipated sheep, one whose eyes were bulging as wide as yours are.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘As serious as a Supreme Court judge. Mama used to say that castor oil is good for what ails you, but tell that to the sheep, because it died.’
‘Oh, Magdalena! I’m coming to get you and your little friend Joyce.’ It was Melvin calling out in a warbling falsetto.
Don’t think for a second that I didn’t pray for a solution to our dilemma. The Bible says that we should pray without ceasing, and that women should pray with their heads covered. It is for this reason that we Old Order Mennonites, such as myself, and the Amish, wear little white caps that we refer to, fittingly, as prayer caps.
I can’t speak for anyone else, but I pray for strength, peace and inspiration, and not things that would bespeak of favouritism. I have no way of measuring it, but I am pretty sure that I am capable of praying as ‘hard’ as the next person. Or am I? Every time that there is a plane crash or a devastating tornado that is responsible for many fatalities, a survivor will appear on television and credit their good fortune to having prayed ‘real hard.’ God forbid that I will one day be the corpse found in Seat 32A, who didn’t pray quite as hard as the occupant of Seat 32B.