Meanwhile, the good angel on my right shoulder was practically shouting in my ear words to the opposite effect. Elias deserved respect, whereas my desire to take a second gander was merely morbid curiosity. I am happy to say that in the end my good angel and my gag reflex won out, and I truthfully averted my eyes as much as possible.
Of course, the aforementioned is all metaphorical, except for the flatness of poor Elias, which cannot be exaggerated. Neither can my sense of vertigo when I looked down at the unbroken tree canopy far below. I staggered backward, nearly stepped on Elias, and then fled screaming to the far side of the turnaround where it abuts the road. In seconds Chris was at my side.
“You all right?”
“Of course not! I almost stepped-thank the Good Lord I didn’t. But it’s so awful.”
“Miss Yoder, I’ve never seen you like this. You’re known for your sharp wit. To be honest, this new side of you really freaks me out.”
“But I am freaked-out!”
“So am I. But don’t you think a little of your macabre humor might make this a bit more bearable for both of us? At the very least, give me a good dose of your famous sarcasm. And, if you have to scrape the bottom of the barrel, I’ll take just plain old-fashioned criticism.”
“Hmm. Was all right one word or two?”
“Beats me.”
“Purists and older grammarians would have your head on a paper platter if you made it one word, but common usage will eventually change that. I read recently that even some copy editors permit the use of alright these days. I made it two words in the first instance for old time’s sake, but one word just now.”
“You’re really weird, Miss Yoder. Are you sure you’re not a closet Californian?”
“Like I said before, anything’s possible. Besides, it worked. I’m feeling much calmer, and here’s the sheriff now.”
As much as I’d wanted to stay until someone from the sheriff’s team had rappelled down the slope and tramped around a bit, I had to get back to the children. Before leaving, I’d wheeled Little Jacob’s crib into Alison’s room and positioned it next to the head of her bed. Upon returning I found Alison sprawled out under the crib on the floor, with the baby asleep on her stomach. A sheet had been draped over the crib to form a tent.
I lifted my son back into his crib, and then shook my daughter gently. “Alison, I’m back.”
She opened one eye. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Don’t you want to get back into bed, dear?”
“Nah, maybe later. I’m kinda comfortable right now. What gives, Mom? Where’d you go?”
Her eye closed, and, thinking she was asleep again, I started backing from the room. “Sweet dreams,” I mouthed, and blew them both air kisses.
“Ain’t’cha gonna answer?”
I sat on the bed and rested my chin in my cupped hands. “There was sort of an accident up on Buffalo Mountain; Elias Whitmore is dead.”
“Ya mean that really cute guy from your church?”
“Yes.”
“Who killed him, Mom? How?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ya said ‘sort of an accident.’ That’s Mom talk for it weren’t no accident, so I want the details.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m afraid that it’s privileged information, dear.”
“And that’s Mom talk for ‘you’re too young to hear all them gross details, yet you’re old enough to take care of your little brother while I traipse off and investigate me a murder.’ ”
“Traipse? Since when do fourteen-year-olds use that word? And if you don’t mind me saying so, Alison, your grammar is terrible.”
“When they have ya for a mom, and yes, I do mind; you’re trying to change the subject, and ya know it.”
My sigh of resignation blew candles out as far away as Susannah’s apathy vigil in Cleveland (I was informed later that the rally had been canceled for lack of interest). “Elias was flattened by a steamroller up on the second turnaround on Buffalo Mountain. It was not a pretty sight.”
“Cool.
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Mom. It’s just that if you’re gonna be dead-uh, I don’t know how I meant it, ’cause it ain’t gonna sound right, no matter what I say. But remember that I’m just a kid, and I seen a lot of them horror movies before I came here.”
“Saw.”
“I seen those too. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre-”
“Not that. You saw the movies. You didn’t seen them.”
“Of course I didn’t seen them. Who the heck talks like that?”
“Oy vey!”
“I was just trying to say that to a kid, being squished is way more cool than just dying of old age, or something boring like that.”
“My parents were squished.”
“Cool-I mean, ouch! I’m sorry.”
“Alison, what are you doing under your brother ’s crib?”
“It’s comfortable down here.”
“It is? But you hate the floor; when you have sleepovers-”
“Okay, if I tell ya, will ya promise ya won’t get mad?”
“Did you wet your bed? That’s all right, dear-two words, of course-although you have been reminded a million times that the last thing you should do before retiring for the night is use the little girls’ room.”
“Ya see, Mom, you’re already mad, ain’t ya, and I ain’t even had a chance ta tell ya.”
I prayed silently for patience and understanding. This is my least answered prayer. Then again, it is, perhaps, the one into which I put the least amount of effort.
“I’m not mad, dear. Nor am I angry. I’m tired, and in the mood for an I told you so. But I’ll try to hold back now, I promise.”
Alison can tell when I’m calling on divine help, and sometimes she even tries to cooperate. “Ya know that picture ya have on your dresser of that mean old woman?”
“Grandma Yoder?”
“Yeah. Well, she was here.”
“A cold cliché just ran up my spine,” I said.
“What?”
“A chill. You saw a ghost.”
“What else is new?”
“You’ve seen her before?”
“Lots of times. That old lady-I mean Great-Granny Yoder-is all the time coming in here and checking on me. She gets really mad if I don’t put away my stuff. And sheesh, you should see how much she hangs around Little Jacob.” She rolled out from under the crib and sat facing me cross-legged. “Ain’t ya seen her, Mom?”
“I have, but not for a long time. Not since I discovered that the Yoders weren’t my birth parents.”
“Yeah, but aren’t your real parents the ones who raise ya?”
I smiled. “That’s right, they are. I’ve sort of been forgetting that in my case.”
“There ain’t such a thing as sorta, Mom; that’s what you’re always saying ta me. Either something is, or it ain’t.”
“From the mouths of babes, dear.”
“Hey! I ain’t no baby!”
“That’s for sure; you’re a very wise teenager-when you’re not trying to date. So anyway, do you find that hiding under a tent works?”
“Oh, it ain’t the tent so much; it’s that lavender bath junk I sprinkled on top. I read in some book that ghosts don’t like lavender, so they plant it around castles on that account.”
“I thought something smelled good.”
“Ya ain’t mad that I used it?”
“Alison, I don’t have mad cow disease-or rabies. Do I fly off the handle at everything?”
She shrugged. “Pretty much, but ya ain’t too bad, Mom. Ya ain’t never hit me like Lindsey Taylor’s mom. Lindsey’s always covering up for her, but I seen the bruises. Making excuses, ya know.”
I jumped to my feet. “That’s terrible! We have to do something about that.”