Gruel and Unusual Punishment

by Tamar Myers

  But when it was all said and done, the tape worked miracles. I could move the upper part of my body without feeling like someone was taking a crowbar to my chest. This meant I could finally assess my situation.

  Alas, what I learned on that score wasn't good. Neither door would open. The two-door vehicle had become quite firmly lodged in the crotch of a massive sycamore. What's more, the crotch that cradled me was a good twenty feet off the ground. Had I been able to open the window the night before, and somehow managed to crawl out, I most probably would have fallen to the ground and broken my scrawny neck. All the duct tape in the world, and all the king's men, wouldn't have been able to put together this horsy again.

  I was trapped, but at least I was safe. I said a prayer of thanksgiving and set about trying to improve my situation. Two things that very much needed attention were my lacerated forehead and broken nose. A fly had found its way through the cracked window and was determined to settle on the open wound just below my hairline. As for my nose—every time I turned my head, it felt like it was going to spin off into space. Somehow I needed to cover the gash and splint the proboscis. But with what?

  "Think, dumkopf," I said aloud. "This isn't brain surgery we're talking about. There's got to be something you can use."

  It was then that I heard my mother's voice. It was as loud and clear, and grating, as it had ever been when she was alive.

  "Use what you have," Mama said. It was what she always said when I asked for a new outfit. Mama was the ultimate mixer and matcher.

  "All I've got is what I bought at Sam's," I wailed. I retrieved the spilled items from the floor and stacked them on the seat. "And this!" I held the package of feminine goods Beth had so generously given me.

  "You've got more than enough," Mama said. That was the last I heard from her for a while.

  For once, Mama was right. If necessity is the mother of invention, then surely dire need is the daddy. First I cleansed the open wound on my forehead as best I could with a wad of toilet tissue and antibacterial cleansing gel. It hurt like the dickens of course, providing me with an opportunity to repeat a few of the words that had escaped my lips earlier. Taping the sanitary pad on my forehead was easy and relatively painless.

  Taping a sanitary pad along the length of my considerable nose was a bit trickier. It was also a whole lot more painful. My poor schnozz kept shifting about like a gear in the hands of a city driver. By the time I finally got the wings secured with tape, my nose was bleeding again. To stanch the flow, I plugged both nostrils with wads of toilet paper.

  After attending to my wounds I was able to settle down a bit. I wouldn't say I was comfortable exactly, but the situation was bearable. I ate two sardines for breakfast, sipped a little water, and napped. When I awoke I was ravenous, so I devoured the rest of the sardines for lunch. Not knowing how long I had to make my provisions stretch, I even drained the oil from their can, taking great care not to cut my tongue on the sharp edges. After all, a Magdalena without a tongue is like a flashlight without batteries.

  For the remainder of the day I ate sparingly, drank even more sparingly, and tried to amuse myself—when I wasn't praying—by telling myself stories. Alas, I am totally without imagination, and my stories kept putting me to sleep. In a desperate attempt to stave off boredom, and on the off chance that it might lead to my discovery, I fashioned a kite of sorts by taping the paper-light Styrofoam bowls to a length of string. A long strand of toilet paper served as a tail. I anchored the kite to my steering wheel before slipping it through the crack above the window. Unfortunately there wasn't a breath of wind, and the strung bowls hung limply down the trunk of the massive tree, the toilet-paper tail cascading almost to the ground.

  Eventually I became so bored, I resorted to cleaning out my purse. That's when I found the small notebook that I use as a memory prodder. It was like finding gold, and I immediately started a journal of my ordeal. In it I recorded the date—based on the assumption that I had not been unconscious for more than a few hours—how I felt at the time of writing, and a few details I thought might be of interest to any loved ones who survived me (in the event I croaked in the crotch of that sycamore).

  Perhaps you have always wondered how folks who find themselves in circumstances such as mine attend to their personal needs. I know I've always been curious. Well, you'll have to keep wondering. At least about the details. Suffice it to say, one of the Styrofoam bowls was put to good use, and the giant sycamore which held me prisoner, nourished as it was, would continue to grow healthily for years to come.

  At any rate, although my first full day in the tree passed tolerably well, my second evening was—uh, Hades on earth. I was just finishing my Beanie Weenie supper when the first of the mosquitoes found me. She must have had her cell phone with her, because within minutes she was joined by a swarm. There was virtually nothing I could do to stop the invasion. Because I'd been physically unable to remove my dress and slip before wrapping my chest, I had nothing to stuff in the space, and I was now out of duct tape. My dirty bloomers, if you must know, had gotten the heave-ho hours earlier. There was nothing to do but suffer.

  Perhaps it was because of all the mosquitoes in the area, but I've never heard so many bullfrogs in my life. They bellowed like raging bulls, from dusk until dawn. Even my sister Susannah, who once slept through an earthquake while visiting San Francisco, would not have gotten more than a wink. I made a mental note to send the people of France a thank-you note for all the amphibious legs they'd eaten.

  But the next day was even worse. While the frogs slept and the mosquitoes took a much-needed break from their feeding frenzy, forty-five million fat, fearless flies found me. I can only conclude that I'm sweet, because they were all over me like white on rice. Eventually I gave up trying to slap them. Like those folks I've seen in pictures of Australia's outback, I let them crawl where they would.

  I had more important things to think of than just insects. There seemed to be a pattern developing. First blood, then frogs, vermin, and flies. It had yet to hail—although no doubt it would—and I was too high up to be reached by wild beasts of any size. I couldn't remember all the plagues off the top of my wounded head, but I was pretty sure that the final one was the death of the firstborn. And I, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, was the oldest child!

  "Oh Lord, please make it quick!" I implored.

  I suspect the Lord had His own daily reminder in front of Him, opened to the M's. I did everything but die quickly. My mosquito bites festered, I ran out of food and water, and just when I thought things couldn't get worse, a cold front blew down from Canada. It wasn't cold enough to kill the flies and mosquitoes, mind you—it was June, after all—just cold enough to make me shimmy and shake like a pagan Presbyterian on a disco dance floor.

  "Oh, Lord," I begged through chattering teeth. "Take me now!"

  The Lord finally listened.

  22

  I saw the light. It was every bit as beautiful as I'd imagined it would be. I was in a tunnel of some sort, and floating toward it, feeling absolutely weightless. At the end of the tunnel, silhouetted by the luminance, were two figures, one male, the other female. The male figure I took to be the Lord. The female figure had to be Mama.

  Before I could get close enough to make positive identification, the female figure spoke. "She looks awful, even for Magdalena. Isn't there anything else we can do?"

  "Mama? Is that you?"

  "She's delirious," Mama said, and turned to the Lord.

  I must have been nearer the two than I thought, because the Lord took my face in both His hands and cradled it gently. Then He lifted my eyelids with His fingertips.

  "She's conscious," He said. "We just need to give her a minute."

  "I made it, didn't I?" I cried. I don't mind confiding what an immense relief it was to learn that I had indeed made it to the right side. I know, as a Christian I am supposed to feel assured that I am saved, and I do for the most part. But I still hav
e a few doubts; I am human after all. Well, at least I was.

  "You made it, all right/' the Lord said. "Just hang in there. The ambulance will be here soon."

  "They have ambulances in Heaven?" I thought no one ever got sick there. Then again, Heaven had streets, didn't it? Gold streets, to be sure, but they had to be used for something.

  "She's definitely coming around," the Lord said. "She heard me say ambulance."

  I smiled up at my Maker. "To take me to Your mansion in the sky, right?"

  "Delta Dawn," Mama began to sing, "what's that flower you have on?"

  Mama's voice sounded no better than it had when she was alive. In fact, it sounded very much like Susannah's. Mama even looked a bit like Susannah.

  I blinked and tried to focus.

  "You see?" the Lord said. "If I know Magdalena, she'll try to sit up any second now. We have to stop her. She needs to be X-rayed before she's allowed to move a muscle."

  The Lord was beginning to sound very much like my neighbor and uh—dare I say man friend—Dr. Gabriel Rosen. Gabe the Babe, I've been known to call him in private.

  I closed my eyes tightly, and opened them once more. Sure enough, that wasn't Mama's mug I was staring at. The Lord's either. And I certainly wasn't in Heaven.

  "Where am I?" I demanded.

  "You're in some stupid woods," Susannah said. "You were in a terrible car wreck of some kind and have maxi-pads taped to your face. It's lucky you didn't die."

  "The car!" I was lying on my back, looking up. I turned my head one hundred and eighty degrees, but couldn't see a car of any description. Only the stupid woods. "Where's my car?" I demanded.

  "Mags, honey/' Gabe said, "we'll fill you in on everything later. What you need to do now is just rest."

  "What I need now is water," I croaked.

  Gabe shook his head. "Sorry hon. There's a stream nearby, but I don't know if it's potable. But the ambulance will have an IV and—"

  I tuned him out for a while. An ambulance meant strangers. A hospital meant even more strangers. There were people I couldn't trust at the moment, one of whom drove a white car with tinted windows and wanted me dead.

  "No ambulance," I said emphatically.

  "Don't be silly, Mags." Susannah grinned happily. "Gabe said I could ride in the back with you. We'll have fun."

  "No ambulance!" I shouted.

  "Hey, hey," Gabe said. "Take it easy, Mags. You'll only do yourself harm."

  I tried to prop myself up on my elbows, but the pain was too intense. "It's a matter of life and death," I groaned.

  Gabe glanced at Susannah as if to reassure her. "Our Mags is exaggerating."

  "I am not! For your information"—I paused to gasp—"I'm not talking about my injuries. I'm talking about a murderer on the loose. The one who pushed my car over the edge of the embankment."

  That got their attention. They shut their mouths while I opened mine. First I swore them to secrecy—an un-Mennonite but necessary thing to do—and then I filled them in as quickly as I could. I had to leave out many details, but with the ambulance on its way, there was no time to waste. Whenever either tried to interrupt, I waggled a finger weakly at them.

  "So you see," I said in summary, "this person thinks I'm dead. I've got to keep it that way."

  Gabe shook his handsome head. "Just how are we supposed to do that? Whisk you away right now and stash you someplace where no one will find you?"

  "Exactly."

  "Mags, honey, I know you take this detecting thing seriously, but this is carrying it too far. You need medical help."

  "Which you can give me, dear/'

  "But I'm a cardiologist and—"

  I found the strength to wave my hand at him. "Please stop arguing, and just do as I say. I've got it all figured out. You can take me to the hospital over in Somerset County if you really want X rays and all that. Nobody knows me there. Then I can stay with you until I'm well enough to get around." I pointed at Susannah. "And you, dear, will help me with a disguise. Fifteen feet of filmy fabric will take a little getting used to, but I'm sure I can manage."

  "What about your car?" Gabe asked. "We have to report the accident. If we don't, the ER in Somerset will."

  "We'll tell them I fell from a tree. And anyway, I'll register under an alias."

  "Oh sis, you're so crafty," Susannah cooed. "I'm so proud of you. But what are you going to tell Melvin?"

  I did my best to arrange my dry cracked lips into a maternal smile. "Need we tell him anything, dear?"

  She clapped her hands in glee. "A secret! I just love secrets."

  "I was hoping you'd say that. But Freni's another story. Not only is she as stubborn as a bulldog, but besides you two, she's the only one who will really care if I don't show up."

  "What about Alison?"

  "We only just barely know each other," I said. "Besides, I think she's too young to keep such an important secret."

  Gabe gave me an incredulous look. "You're wrong about nobody caring. The entire community is stunned by your disappearance. You're all anyone talks about."

  "Yeah, sis, you even made the front page of The Broad Top Bulletin."

  "That's good," I said, trying not to dwell on my fame, "because that confirms my death in the eyes of my would-be assassin. Still, we tell Freni."

  Gabe sighed. "Okay, suppose we go along with this. Somerset County is too close for the tests I want run. I know someone up in

  Pittsburgh I can trust. Runs a private clinic. That meet your approval, Sherlock?"

  "That's fine, Watson."

  A second later we heard the distant sound of a siren.

  Gabe and Susannah did an admirable job of hustling my busted bustle to Gabe's car before the paramedics—who had had to travel all the way down from Bedford, seeing as how we were in Pennsylvania—arrived. Of course Gabe complained the entire time that what he was doing was not only stupid medicine, but ethically wrong. Susannah, of course, thought it was just plain fun.

  On the long drive to Pittsburgh I filled them in some more— although I didn't tell them everything. Susannah means well, but, her delight in keeping secrets aside, she sometimes can't tell her lips from the next person's ear.

  They in turn related how, the day before, Susannah had been driving by herself down Route 96, searching for me, when she'd spotted "the funniest-looking kite I'd ever seen." She mentioned the sighting to Melvin, who dismissed the strange object as being nothing more than trash. She then called Gabe, who thought investigating the object was worth a shot. By then it was dark, however, and they decided to wait until the next day.

  That night the mother of all thunderstorms rolled through, and the next day the funny kite was nowhere to be seen. Still, Susannah remembered its approximate location and the two of them, Gabe and my sister, set out on foot to find its source, hopefully me.

  "You were lying about twenty yards from your car," Gabe said.

  I slurped the last of the chocolate shake they'd bought me at the first McDonald's we came to. I'd wanted more than just a shake, mind you, but Gabe had insisted I break my fast with liquids. No matter, that simple shake did far more to restore my health than an IV would have.

  "Yes, but how did I get down?"

  Gabe, who was driving, stroked my arm with his right hand. "Get down from what, hon?"

  "The tree!"

  "What tree?"

  "The giant sycamore my car landed in when it went sailing off the road."

  Susannah, who was in the backseat filing her nails, patted my other arm. "She's delusional again," she said, presumably to Gabe.

  "I most certainly am not! My car was wedged in the crotch of a tree. I couldn't get the doors open."

  "Hon," Gabe said softly, "your car wasn't in a tree. And both doors were wide open."

  "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "Of course not. It's just that you've been under a great deal of stress. You might have a concussion and well—uh
—"

  "What he's trying to say, sis, is that you've been seeing things."

  Gabe nodded, but kept his eyes on the road.

  "Well, I haven't! Okay, so maybe I thought Gabe was God and you were Mama, but that was only for a few seconds. My car was wedged in that tree, and that's a fact."

  "Whatever you say," Susannah said.

  Those were fighting words, and I could tell by her tone that she'd rolled her eyes. Wisely, I let it go. I knew the truth, and that's all that mattered—well, until I got my strength back, and could prove what I'd said was true. In the meantime, it was best to cooperate as much as possible.

  My maturity paid off. Gabe's friend at the clinic confirmed that, although I'd suffered a slight concussion, there had been no permanent damage to my noggin and I was well on my way to recovery. Being a reasonable man, he stopped short of certifying me as sane. Then again, who really is? As for my ribs—two of them had hairline fractures, but they too had already begun to heal. The doc said I'd done a bang-up job with the duct tape. Even the gash on my forehead was coming along nicely. Only my nose was problematic. Apparently maxi-pads, even the type with wings, don't make good splints. The prognosis for my pro

  boscis was that I was going to either have the thing reset at some point or risk sinus problems. I chose surgery—but opted for a later date. In the meantime I had an important fish to catch and fry.

  I spent just three days at the clinic, and then Gabe settled me into an upstairs bedroom at his house. In my absence the Inn had been closed and Freni, bless her heart, had taken the munchkin Alison home with her. True to their word, Gabe and Susannah had shared news of my discovery, and subsequent recovery, with my elderly cousin. I was just putting my new toothbrush away when Freni and her husband came galloping up the drive in their open summer buggy.

  By the time I got downstairs the couple were inside, panting from exertion. "Ach!" Freni squawked when she saw me. Then, defying five hundred years of inbred inhibition, she threw herself at me, clasping me tightly in her stubby arms.