FUSS
Everybody knew the conjoined twins round those parts. Elspeth and Mary-Josephine Totzenholt were good country women with good community spirit, and were particularly well-known for their cooking, which of course they did in tandem. They were always ready to provide sumptuous pies, pastries and candies for any local fundraiser or church cause.
Old Davey Elder remembers welding two school-desks together for them when they were little, so they could sit together comfortably in the one-room schoolhouse in which Elspeth excelled at the conjugation of Latin verbs, and Mary-Josephine was a whiz at the declension of Latin nouns.
They were, however, denied the Reverend Stoltzfus Latin Award, given annually by the small town of Verbenia, because it was a clear stipulation that the prize could only be awarded to one individual. And so that year the Latin award went to Clyde Spaeth, who could not really tell his "amat" from his "amant."
Clyde Spaeth was found five months later with not one, but two axes in his head. They found the young man lying in snow in Old Man Grigsby's fallow field.
Tracks had clearly been broomswept as the murderer or murderers walked backwards from the dread deed. When the sisters were questioned they categorically denied any involvement, and the matter was soon dropped (since they were well-liked and the metaphysical implications of a trial were just too mindboggling to Verbenia's moral custodians).
Besides, Clyde had a bad ticker. Everyone knew his father dropped dead at twenty-four and the boy was considered a short-hire proposition.
It did bother some of the more morally punctilious citizens of Verbenia that every winter the Totzenholt sisters thought it humorous to make a set of conjoined snowwomen on their front lawn, with broad smiles below carrot noses. It wasn't the grimly flippant humor apparent in the creation of this short-lived, odd form of self-portraiture, but the fact that one merry snowgal always proudly held an ax while the other snowgal cheerfully wielded a broom.
In later years, they gave Latin lessons to some of the more promising wee scholars of Verbenia until Elspeth died on her eighty-sixth birthday, as she was napping in a chair beside her sister who had been putting the finishing touches to the icing on the cake.
When Mary-Josephine tried to rouse her sister from her slumber, she felt the cold of her skin instantly, and knew then what a terrible incumbency had come upon her. The guests, the kith and kin who had gathered in the house for the celebration, made a great protestation and were preparing to rush Mary-Josephine to the hospital, but she just shushed them and smiled. The outcome was clear, she explained in a few words. And she smiled to let them know she was not bitter. And so rationality prevailed.
Mary-Josephine cheerfully lit and blew out the candles, made a wish, and said something in Latin which nobody gathered there that day understood. And she actually sat there beside her dead sister and finished her slice of birthday cake with great dignity. Occasionally she stroked her sister's hair, or propped her up when she would begin to slump. At one point, she even fixed her dead sister's lipstick. Everybody present was greatly impressed.
She died sitting perfectly still, after having placed her fork, licked clean of icing, back upon a little plate adorned with roses and cherubim. The last things she did was kiss her sister's cheek as she propped her up on the chair next to her, and arrange herself as though a photograph were about to be taken. She had already directed a trusted family member to the keys to the house, the keys to everything else, and a note which explained how everything was to be handled. And she apologized for not being able to do the dishes. Then she closed her eyes. And the cold of her sister came into her, and she willingly shared it. She shared it completely, as they had always done with everything.
What she had said in Latin was a matter of much speculation, but never resolved. It was generally believed to have been a sentiment extremely moral, witty, barbed or wise. Or possibly all of the above. They were missed, those gals. They had style. They did it their way. And that is how Verbenia remembered them: tidy, bright and only a tiny bit terrifying. In brief, they were everything one can hope for in interesting neighbors. And they died without asking any favors or making any fuss at all, which--as everyone in a small town knows--is the sign of true virtue.
