29

Now wait just one apple-picking minute! Why hadn’t I seen it before? Timms, Zambezi, Nyle-they were all names of important rivers, although in some cases the spelling was not the same as the actual body of water. And the mysterious Russian? Surimanda Baikal? Wasn’t Baikal the name of the world’s deepest lake?

One may wonder how a mere Mennonite woman stuck in the hinterlands of southern Pennsylvania would have such a grasp of geography. I would be inclined to let one rudely wonder, were it not for the fact that this presumption sorely vexes me. In all modesty I summarily report that I am extremely well-read. I read primarily nonfiction books-books that feed my mind. I see little point in reading fiction, as it is all made-up. (I find comedic mysteries to be the least satisfying, as they rely too much on clever wordplay and not enough on plot.)

Now where was I? Oh yes, it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that all my guests had great water features for names. But now that I knew something very strange was going on, what was I to do? At the moment, nothing, of course, but in the future- Well, maybe I should not be so quick to despair. I had one small advantage in this cat-and-mouse game-unfair as it was, with seven cats and just one rat-er, mouse-I’d just figured out from their aliases that they were all in this together, and power always comes with knowledge.

Melvin picked the ham sandwich, which left Tina the turkey, but neither took the time to eat just then. With guns poking in my back, they hustled my bustle out the seldom-used rear hall door, the one located right next to the root cellar.

“Oh, please, please, don’t put me in the root cellar. It’s dark down there and it’s cold.”

“Listen to her beg,” Melvin said gleefully.

“I’m not begging; I’m imploring. Melvin, I’ll do anything you want. I’ll forget this whole thing, if only you don’t put me in the root cellar. There are spiders down there. You know how I feel about spiders.”

“She hates them,” Melvin chortled. “Once I sneaked up on her when she was reading a book, and I dangled a plastic spider in her face, and you know what she did? She peed in her pants!”

Alas, it was a true story, but Melvin had neglected to mention that it had happened when we were kids-a very long time ago. No matter. In the interim I’d gotten over my arachnophobia.

What mattered now was that I convince Melvin that putting me alive in the cellar was the worst form of torture he could possibly devise. What Melvin apparently didn’t remember was that my root cellar had survived the tornado of the 1990s completely intact. Also still intact was the secret tunnel that led from the root cellar to the floor of my current henhouse. The tunnel had been dug by the original owner of the house, my ancestor Jacob the Strong Hochstetler, whose father had been taken captive by the Delaware Indians when Jacob was a boy.

“Melvin, have I ever told you that you’re as dumb as a post?” the teensy Tiny said.

Melvin stopped pushing me and grunted. “Hunh?”

“Miss Yoder wants you to put her down in that root cellar. She’s playing you.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Charlene. Magdalena never plays.”

Charlene? Who would have thought that such a petite young thing would have such a long, old- fashioned name? She was obviously named after her father-Charles. That was heartening in this day and age when so many don’t even know who their fathers are.

“Yoder, I asked you a question,” Melvin snarled. I’m sure it’s very hard to imagine a chameleon snarling, but one must keep in mind a very big one, the size of a runty man.

“What question would that be, dear?”

“You see? You always tune me out. I asked you where you stashed the kid.”

“You mean your nephew?”

“Says you; how do I know you weren’t sleeping around?”

“Charlene, dearest,” I purred in a conspiratorial tone, “Melvin and I are biologically siblings-albeit of different species. Wouldn’t my son be his nephew, no matter who the father was?”

Tiny Timms tossed her golden ponytail. “Beats me. I failed biology in high school-twice. They finally let me graduate using double credits from health class because I was the captain of the cheerleading team and sleeping with Mr. Gawronski, the principal.” She giggled.

“You see?” Melvin said. “Now tell me where he is!”

“Not even if you throw me into a den of spiders-of which I’m terribly afraid. Of course, after a few hours in there, I’m sure I’d tell you everything. Maybe even give up my PIN number.”

“Then that’s where you’re going.” He grabbed me by the elbows and began to manhandle me toward the cellar door. “Keep your gun on her, Charlene.”

“Melvin, wait,” Charlene said, sounding suddenly focused. “She wants to go into the cellar, I can tell.”

“I do not!” Oops, I’d responded way too soon and with too much force.

“You see: she does. She’s just pretending she doesn’t. Let’s take her with us.”

“But she’ll slow us down. Besides, she stinks.”

“I most certainly do not!”

“Shut up, Yoder with the odor.”

“That was in junior high, for crying out loud, and I couldn’t help it. Mama thought that real Christians shouldn’t wear deodorant on account of we shouldn’t be ashamed of the way God made us smell. I can assure you that I use a good deodorant now-an antiperspirant in fact.”

“Yeah, well, I still don’t want to drag you along. You always think you’re so much better than I am.”

“Then I say we kill her,” Tiny said.

“What?” Melvin and I chorused.

“Throw me in the hold,” I wailed. “Toss me in the dungeon filled with spiders; I beseech thee, dear brother.”

“I’ll shoot her if you want,” Tiny said.

“And then what will Susannah think of you,” I said, playing my trump card. “My baby sister and I are all you have now that our mother is gone. And, of course, Little Jacob.”

“She wasn’t your mother; she was mine!”

“Nonetheless-which ever universe you choose to inhabit-my sister will hate you if you kill me or her beloved nephew. Do you want that, Melvin? Do you want the love of your life to hate you?”

“She’s playing you,” Tiny said.

Despite being a good Christian, and a pacifist to boot, I could have kicked the miniature woman down the cellar stairs; that was how mad she made me. But instead of acting out, I prayed that Melvin would listen to reason for once in his life and do the right thing.

“But it’s too late,” Melvin wailed, proving once and for all that we were indeed blood kin. “You know too much, and Little Johnny can ID me.”

“He can?”

“Do you know how much that wig cost? And these breast forms?” He tugged at his matronly bosom. “I’m telling you, Yoder, that kid had me pegged as a dude the minute he saw Olivia Zambezi.”

“He did? Where was I?”

“Somewhere off in your parallel universe, Yoder.”

“Good one,” Tiny said. “By the way, kids that age are notoriously good at seeing through disguises. It’s because they still take the time to read all the information available to them, and not jump to conclusions based on a few obvious cues.”

“Thank you for the psychology lecture, Dr. Timms,” I said. “By the way, Melvin, the kid in question is named Little Jacob, not Little Johnny.”

“Whatever,” Melvin said.

Tiny must have consulted her watch. “We gotta get going, Melvin. If you don’t want to kill her, then I will. Just go on ahead and get the car started. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

I could hear the chameleon cogitate; that is to say, he sucked in noisily, like he was slurping hot coffee. “Oh heck, all right. But do it quick and easy. Here, like this.” My brother-my very own flesh and blood-had the chutzpah to take Tiny’s hand and guide it so that the end of her pistol nestled in the soft spot behind my right ear.