Tamar Myers - Batter off Dead

“But ya just agreed that I was an adult. Adults can do what they want, can’t they? Besides, I’ve decided that I’m Jewish, and when Jewish girls turn twelve, they become adults in the eyes of the community.”

“Give it up, Alison. Even if you were allowed to date, which you’re not, I wouldn’t let you date someone that much older, and even if I did, which I won’t, it wouldn’t be Ronny Dietrich. Not after what he did at the Fifty-Second Annual Hernia Daze Picnic last summer.”

“Youse old ladies didn’t really think that was lemonade, did ya?”

“Mrs. Hurley almost had a heart attack after swallowing some.”

“No offense, Mom, but Mrs. Hurley was a witch-and I mean that with a B.”

“Don’t you dare talk like that in front of your brother!”

You see how our conversations seem to ricochet from one subject to another? Before we knew it, we were arguing over how much bare midriff was the maximum amount any self-respecting girl (either Mennonite or Jewish) could wear to school (my answer was none), and the evening just seemed to slip away.

I slept fitfully until about two o’clock, when the need to micturate and some exceptionally bright moonlight rescued me from a string of mildly unpleasant dreams. In them Susannah, working in cahoots with Ida, had managed to physically restrain me-tying me up with old toaster cords-and forced me to convert to Apatheism. Needless to say, it was not a religion I embraced wholeheartedly. I was even ambivalent about my habit, which unlike those of the other sisters, was puke green. Strangely, Little Jacob was not in the dream, nor was the Babester. At any rate, I was just about to take my final vows of poverty, temperance, and irrelevancy, when the need to pee roused me-thank heaven.

Finally, at about ten o’clock, when both children appeared to be down for the count, I slipped outside into the cold night air. From my vantage point on the front porch, I could look through the still, leafless trees, across the road and Miller’s Pond, and see the distant lights of the farmhouse across the way. Somewhere in that house my beloved ached for me-or not.

Or not? How could such a thought even pop into my mind?

“Get behind me, Satan!” I said.

Immediately the phone rang.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said. “You’re not fooling me; I know exactly who you are.”

But instead of switching over to message mode after five rings, that instrument of evil kept at it: over and over again. Unless I hustled my bustle back in and answered the ding-dong thing, the cherubic Little Jacob and annoyingly adolescent Alison were both going to be awakened, and then the rest of the night was for sure going to be ruined. I wouldn’t be able to get a single page of reading done, not even the charming southern mysteries of Carolyn Hart, the chocolate-coated tales of Joanna Carl, or the exotic world of Manhattan as delineated by Selma Eichler.

Seeing that I had no choice but to let Lucifer have it with both lungs, I virtually flew back into the house and snatched up the nearest phone. “It’s not funny, you idiot!”

“Uh-”

“By the way, is it hot enough for you?” I slammed the receiver down, shaking with anger and trepidation. After all, it’s not every day that one yells so directly at the Big S, and Heaven only knows what torments he’s capable of enacting as earthly revenge.

Within two seconds the horrible machine that Alexander Graham Bell invented rang again.

“Miss Yoder, don’t hang-”

The Devil sounded maddeningly familiar. But since deception is what he does best, that wasn’t too surprising.

“I’d tell you where to go, except you’re already there,” I cried. “So, with all due respect-oops, there isn’t any-get thee to the St. Louis Airport, Concourse A.” Again I slammed the receiver into its cradle.

They say that the third time is a charm. I won’t agree in this case, but at least by then I thought to turn off the ringer, if need be, rather than smash my phone or rip the cord from the wall. As for simply unplugging the jack, what kind of satisfaction would there be in that?

“Look, you asp,” I screeched into the receiver, “you two-headed son of a viper-”

“Elias Whitmore is dead.”

“You’re going to kill him just to get back at me? Well, I have news for you, buster; even if you do, the Lord will still claim his soul. Elias Whitmore is a bona fide born-again Christian.”

“No offense, Miss Yoder, but have you ever considered seeing a shrink? Sometimes you make less sense than a single copper penny.”

“Good one, Chief-Chief, is that you?”

“Of course. Who did you think it was?”

“Not the Devil-I mean, how silly do you think I am? Magdalena Cuckoo Yoder is not really my name, despite any rumors you may have heard.”

“Miss Yoder, please quit babbling, and just listen for a change.”

“Will do, buckaroo-er, Chief-not that anyone really says er, except in works of fiction.”

“Did you hear me say that Elias Whitmore is dead?”

That’s when his words first sank in. “Dead dead, as in really dead?”

“Totally dead. Can’t get any deader. As a matter of fact, I want you to come up here and take a look before the sheriff gets here.”

“Where are you?”

“Halfway up Buffalo Mountain, on Zigler Bend Road at the second turnaround.”

“I’ll be right there, dear.”

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t enjoy looking at dead bodies-or corpses, if you prefer-but I do find them rather interesting. What fascinates me is how unlifelike the empty human shell is, even just a second after death. There isn’t a mortuary beautician in the world capable of making human remains really appear as if the deceased is merely sleeping. The truth is, either we are corpses or we aren’t, and the transformation is instantaneous.

All of Hernia seemed to be asleep, making the swirling red light atop Chief Ackerman’s squad car all the more startling. I pulled over as soon as I found some shoulder and walked up the rest of the way. The last fifty yards I had a flashlight shining in my face.

“What are you trying to do, dear, blind me?”

“Why did you stop so far down the road?”

“I didn’t want to inadvertently drive over any evidence. Where is he?”

“You’re going to need to steel yourself, Miss Yoder. This isn’t pretty.”

“I’ve seen ugly before.”

“Not like this. You might even vomit-like I did.”

“Please be a mensch and don’t let me step in that.”

“What?”

“Just tell me where to walk.”

The chief took my elbow and gently led me toward the outer edge of the turnaround. The clearing is a semicircle carved into the woods and is meant not so much as a second chance for fearful or fickle drivers, as a place to pull over in emergencies, such as failing brakes. The surface of the turnaround is flat and smooth, chiseled out of solid bedrock, but it is surrounded by a low stone wall that defines its boundaries and gives at least the illusion of safety.

Halfway to the perimeter I stopped on my own. “Oh no, his car went through the wall and over the edge. How awful! What do you think happened? Did he fall asleep?”

“He didn’t go over,” the Chief said.

“Oh. But his car did, right?”

“No. His car is still up at his house.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“That damage was most probably done by a steamroller.”

“Elias was driving a steamroller? But why? Aren’t they used to flatten things-like dirt and freshly laid asphalt?”

“Elias wasn’t driving it. Magdalena, look straight ahead and on the ground. Look carefully. And I’m here to brace you.”

“Okay, but all I see is black rock and some wet, dark mud, and some rags-oh, my Land o’ Goshen!” I started to sway like a young pine in a late March wind.