Play It Again, Spam (22 page)

18

There is power in a crazy face. While I didn't for a I minute believe that Diana was a mummy's mommy, I wasn't about to discount

her dream. Not without more details, at any rate. After all, Granny Yoder dreamed about my parents' death fifteen years before it

happened. Never mind that Granny got a few of the details wrong - Mama did not drown in a vat of milk, and Papa was not

squashed by a giant tennis shoe. But you see, Granny had the basic components, and in her dream my parents died on the same

day.

"Where, when, and how?" I demanded.

Diana had let go of one of my wrists, but she was pulling me along by the other. "The where is the hardest part. It's

someplace close and familiar, but I can't get a clear picture. Someplace round, I think. Or near something round."

"Someplace round? The earth is round, for pete's sake, or haven't they learned that in Egypt yet?"

Diana gave me an extra strong tug and I nearly fell flat on my face. Thank heavens there were no longer any cows on the old

Miller spread.

"Of course we know the earth is round. For your information it wasn't Columbus or even the Vikings who discovered

America."

"I know, silly, it was the Asians - although now we call them Indians, or Native Americans."

"Yes. But I mean from the west."

"Oh, so now you're going to tell me that folks from I Cairo founded Rio?"

"I wish - even though it wasn't Cairo in my day. Alas, it was the Phoenicians who made that great sea voyage to the New

World. But I can assure you, it wasn't my fault for lack of trying. I kept nagging Tut to invest in overseas exploration, but oh no, the

man was obsessed with stockpiling his tomb. You can take it with you was his motto, you know."

"How inspiring, dear. But can we get on with what happens to me?"

"Yes, well, like I said, the place wasn't very clear, but as to how - are you sure you can take this?"

"How?" I wailed.

"You get crushed."

"Crushed? What does that mean?"

"You know, like flattened. Rolled over with something?"

"What kind of something? A steamroller?" I knew the county was getting ready to resurface the highway into Bedford. In fact,

I had lobbied hard to get the levy passed, and had come up against some rather strong opposition. I will admit that at times the

debate got a little bit heated, and I may have let a few things slip out that I shouldn't have. And while I wouldn't have been

surprised to find myself tarred and feathered as a result, tarred and painted with a dotted yellow line was going too far.

"It couldn't be a steamroller," Diana said gravely, "because you're in some kind of building."

"Ah, yes, the one with the round rooms."

"Are you making fun of me again, Magdalena?"

"Not at all, dear."

"Good, because you shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, and I came here to save you. I tried warning those silly Trojans,

you know, but - "

"Save away," I wailed, "but can you spare me the history lesson?"

Diana's grip on my wrist tightened. Fortunately I am ambidextrous.

"I told you I dreamt you would die in a round space - or near a round shape. I didn't say it was a room. It could be anywhere.

This pasture, even."

"This pasture isn't round, dear."

"Maybe, but that pond back there is."

My pace quickened. Now it was me pulling her. "Come on, dear. Get a move on it, before a meteor hits."

"Oh, I don't think it's going to be a meteor. No, this is something man made. Maybe one of those jumbo jets with huge tires is

going to land on you. We never had to worry about that in Egypt."

I glanced at the sky. No planes in sight.

"When "

"Today," she said calmly. "Tomorrow at the latest."

A shiver ran down my spine. "You really and truly dreamt this?"

"Would I be wasting my time, here, on a day like this, if I hadn't?"

"Okay,let's say you dreamt it, and that your dreams do come true. What does this have to do with the missing presences - I

mean, people?"

"They're somewhere on this property, Magdalena, and like you, they're in great danger."

"Then we should be going home," I wailed. "I don't have to help Melvin. We can call in the county sheriff."

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'? Unlike you, I only get one life!"

"Because I had two dreams, and in the second dream you did something and it saved not only your life, but theirs."

"What did I do?"

"I don't remember."

"What do you mean, you don't remember?"

"I'm not perfect, Magdalena. Sometimes I forget my dreams-just like you do."

Boy, was that a laugh. Ever since the day Aaron called me from Minnesota to tell me that we weren't legally married after all,

and that he had reconciled with his first wife, I've had the same reoccurring nightmare. I won't bore you with details, but it involves

that telephone call, our wedding night, a tub of low-fat whipped topping, and a large orange balloon. Just believe me when I say

that every detail of that dream is crystal clear when I wake, and remains with me the rest of the day.

"Anyway, Magdalena, in the second dream you took matters into your own hands and saved the day. And you saved the

benign presence."

"Shouldn't we have at least brought along a shovel? Or a pickax?" Just because I'm a pacifist in life, doesn't mean I plan to

die peacefully. My great-great-great-great-grandmother, a Hostetler, was stabbed in the back and scalped by the Delaware, while

her husband did nothing to defend her. I had no intention of repeating her hair-raising experience.

Diana laughed. "Magdalena, it's your mind that is needed, not some garden tool."

"My mind?" I asked dangerously.

"You're one of the brightest, sharpest people I know. I have every faith in you."

"You do?"

"Of course! I'm nowhere near ready to die again. Just between you and me, it's not all it's cracked up to be."

"So practice doesn't necessarily make perfect?"

"Not in this case. Take that time on the Titanic, for instance - "

If I had to die that April day, it wasn't going to be from boredom. "Race you to the Miller house!" I cried.

Despite a breakfast of pancakes and bacon, I could still outrun Diana Lefcourt.

I never have liked the Miller house. It spooked me even as a child. Constance, Aaron's grandmother, was a pretentious

woman who eschewed traditional Pennsylvania Dutch farmhouse architecture in favor of Victorian gingerbread. Unfortunately, the

humble Mennonite laborers she hired didn't know gingerbread from banana bread, and the result was a pseudogothic structure

with more towers and turrets than Windsor Castle. Susannah tells me it looks like the Addams family's house, which, since it isn't

in Bedford County, I have yet to see.

At any rate, Aaron's father did little to improve his inheritance. He had the cheerful yellow exterior of the house painted gray,

and his wife Rebecca hired a heterosexual interior decorator from Pittsburgh. Enough said.

"I feel some vibes from the barn," Diana said, "but most of them are coming from the house."

I stared at the dismal behemoth. Even I could feel the vibes. They were almost as strong as the vibes coming from Granny

Yoder's room the day she died. Every now and then I can still feel them when I crawl into bed.

"Maybe we should start with the barn," I said.

"Magdalena, are you scared?”

"Don't be ridiculous, dear. It's just that the barn isn't locked, and it would be easier for someone to hide in there, if that is

indeed what John Burk and Irma Yoder are doing."

"You are scared, aren't you?"

"Of course not, dear!" That lie just slipped out. All the same, I was going to have to be careful, or pretty soon I could eat my

supper out of anthills. And anyway, there is nothing wrong with cowardice, as long as it is for self-preservation. Fear is a God-

given instinct, after all.

"Well, I'm scared, Magdalena."

"You are?"

"I told you, dying isn't any fun. Of course some ways of getting your ticket punched are worse than others. Take the

Hindenberg, for example - "

"No thanks, dear." I flipped over the soggy doormat and retrieved the key, which I knew all along would be there. There isn't a

Mennonite worth her bonnet who would think to hide her house key anyplace but under the front mat. Rebecca Miller had been no

exception, and Aaron Senior, bless his dotty heart, was not the type to mess with tradition. As for Aaron, Jr., my former Pooky

Bear, to put it kindly - well, since when do weasels lock their dens?

That the key was rusty, and so was the lock, didn't make a lick of difference because the heavy oak door swung open with a

creak the second I touched it. For a moment I peered into the gloom. Then, like the intelligent woman I am, I flipped on the foyer

light switch.

“Let there be light," I said. And there was light. Now, I don't mean to be sacrilegious. My point is that even though the Miller

house was unoccupied, it still had electricity. Earl Whitaker of Hernia Realty has been trying to sell the Miller farm for months.

Walmart expressed a brief interest, as did a Japanese firm, but so far no one has even made an offer. Last month a well-to-do

Amish family spent several days examining the fields and inspecting the barn. Most likely they even took a peek inside the house,

because the last I saw of them they were headed north on Hertlzer Road, their buggy wheels a blur. Like I said, the place has bad

vibes.

"Earl!" I called. "You in there?" There was no answer. Earl, Ali Baba, and a hundred thieves could have been hiding on the

ground floor alone, and I never would have known it. This branch of the Millers is genetically incapable of discarding anything, and

since Rebecca was a Miller on her mama's side, the foible was only compounded. No doubt the heterosexual decorator had been

able to convince Rebecca to part with a few things, but in the fifty intervening years nothing brought into the house ever left.

I must admit that there are certain advantages to clutter - one need never worry about dusting or sweeping, and new

introductions to the melange always match with something. Diana and I timorously wound our way around stacks of yellow

newspaper, piles of vintage clothes, and towers of musty books. Those were the more normative things. The eight defunct

bathroom scales and twenty-six broken manual typewriters were harder to explain. And why would anyone keep five shoeboxes

filled with rubber bands so old they were fused to each other? Or six boxes of half-empty sewing machine bobbins? Or nine

shoeboxes of old pens, their ink long since dried up? And what about the literally hundreds of empty plastic two-liter bottles, their

labels carefully removed? Of what use were they? Not to mention the large garbage bag filled with the cotton packing removed

from medicine bottles. And are any of you wondering where your wire hangers have disappeared to? Well, look no further. The

bad news is they took a vacation to the Miller house; the good news is they have been engaging in nonstop procreation since

then. Or is it the other way around? At any rate, you are welcome to come to Hernia and collect your wire coat hangers and their

progeny. As of this moment they fill up the entire Miller dining room and spill out into the hallway.

"Looks like somebody could have used a garage sale," I said kindly. I didn't say a word about a garbage truck.

Diana nodded. Her eyes were wide, no doubt a mixture of fear and wonder.

"Possession is a primitive need that we at the retreat seek to eliminate."

"I'm sure that's so, dear. Eliminate Babs's need for possessions and she turns them all over to you, right? Well, just

remember, she promised me that Art Deco Tiffany lamp she travels with."

"Magdalena! How terribly crass of you."

"Oh, no, she didn't already give it to you, did she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Besides, you're just wasting time."

"I am not! Earl! Earl! Are you here?"