No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk Read Online Free PDF Page B

anticipation.
    She returned from the kitchen with a huge pan of warm bread pudding, my favorite dessert. It was studded with raisins and smelled delicious, so I decided to risk it. After all, I had just survived a pint of Kool-Aid-flavored zucchini—what possible harm could Lizzie’s bread pudding inflict on me? Just to be on the safe side, however, I carefully picked out all the raisins.

    Susannah and I and the mangy mutt all shared one double bed. Susannah’s snores generally sound like a pig fight at a slop trough, with the occasional snore reminiscent of that time Papa accidentally backed over our prize boar, Samson, with his tractor. Shnookums snores as well, but because of his smaller size, his slumber sounds are softer. Nails raked across a chalkboard seems to describe it about right.
    Before you start feeling too sorry for me, I feel obligated to point out that Amish houses don’t have central heat. In fact, generally only the ground floor is heated, by a large stove, or sometimes a fireplace. Occasionally kerosene space heaters are placed in upstairs rooms, but not in the Troyer manse. And since it was February, after all, the proximity of another warm body, and a two-pound hair ball, was better than nothing.
    Despite the racket next to me, I did eventually fall asleep. But before I did, I replayed the day’s events many times over in my mind, and true to form, I generated more questions than a four-year-old is capable of thinking up.
    Why hadn’t I heard a peep about Levi Mast’s death from other Amish that afternoon? Why had Levi Mast climbed to the top of a corn silo on the morning of his February wedding, when it was in the autumn that farmers filled their silos from the top? And why would a strong young man, who had undoubtedly climbed silos many times before, lose his grip on the ladder and split his head open like a cracked egg? And why would Sam and Lizzie Troyer, who were obviously a little cracked themselves, bring the young man’s death to my attention? And what were sardine bones doing in the bread pudding?
     

Chapter Seven
    Breakfast was toast and sardine omelettes. I was not surprised. The five Troyer boys resumed howling the moment they saw Susannah, and my poor sister was forced to take refuge on the front porch again. I am convinced that the cigarettes she buys are vitamin-enriched, since smoke is about the only thing that passes her gullet on a typical day. If it weren’t for all the tar in Susannah’s lungs, even just a gentle breeze would inflate those yards of flapping fabric in her frivolous frocks to the extent that she might well float far away. The two pounds of barking ballast in her bra would not be enough to keep her grounded.
    During breakfast I tried unsuccessfully to get back on the subject of Levi Mast. It was like trying to get chickens to talk. There was a lot of clucking and a little crowing, but nothing specific said. I had the impression that the couple, especially Sam, regretted having opened up to me the night before. I decided to let the matter roost until later.
    After breakfast I helped Lizzie do the dishes. Since the Troyer house does not have electricity, we did it the old-fashioned way by heating water on the stove and washing them in the sink. I washed while Lizzie dried. In fact, I insisted on that, even though the bottom of the omelette pan sported a crust of egg and fish a quarter inch thick. It is my belief that the best way to get people to share their innermost secrets is to perform their hardest chores for them. Guilt and gratitude go a long way toward relaxing even the most restricted larynxes.
    “I can certainly understand how frustrating it would be to cook for someone’s wedding, and then have him die,” I said, holding up the gleaming frying pan.
    “A real waste,” Lizzie said. She reached for the pan, but I held it just out of reach, a reminder of what I had just done for her.
    “You don’t suppose that young Levi might have changed his