A Statement Concerning Certain Misunderstandings

I plead guilty to two of the presented counts: excitement (near to the point of hysteria, I grant) and excessive volume (which is, at my age, imperceptible). But I am not mad, nor demented, nor uncivilized, or any other atrocious epithet my jailers have assigned to me.

Perhaps you’ve never been so blatantly vilified and simply can’t understand it. I give you, my dear audience, the most gracious benefit of the doubt, and trust that this jury of my peers will judge fairly and declare, as is the only logical conclusion when presented with the evidence, my complete and utmost righteousness.

It began innocently enough. Though I was a hostage in my home against my will, I had learned the art of feigned docility, in the interest of maintaining my health. My singular guard was a scrawny little thing and, I suspect, a Cuban spy, who wouldn’t hesitate in a moment to poison me were I to be visibly suspicious. Therefore, we existed in a tedious limbo—her playing at the sweet, naive nurse, and I playing at the meek and passive elder. She was quite useful to me by way of making meals and cleaning the house, though her habit of keeping doors bolted and knives locked away reeked to me of Communist influence. During her visits, my daughter called her Yanet—or, maybe it was Janet. Regardless, the name of my handler hardly concerned me, and seeing as recalling names had been John's, my late husband's, strength, I couldn’t be bothered to remember it most days. 

On the morning of the incident (which, I will remind you, is not my fault in the slightest), I’d noticed the suspicious activity of my guard, who had begun subtly consolidating belongings into neat piles around the house. The pantry had been picked nearly clean, and half-filled boxes littered the floor. I meant to ask, of course, about the meaning of these changes, but got distracted by a particularly beautiful cardinal landing outside the patio doors.

It was then that disaster struck.

The front door was unlocked and shoved open, sticking as it swung. The assailant was a tall, middle-aged woman, with shoulder-length blonde hair and a mildly familiar smile. 

“Good morning!” she had said.

I, of course, was too stunned to speak.

How severely must we have declined as a nation for homes to be burglarized in broad daylight? It was hardly ten o’clock, and yet here was some random broad strolling into my home, claiming to be my child? John and I were never blessed with children, so clearly this woman is a liar. And speaking of John, where, I began to wonder, is he? Surely he heard the door open…

“Good morning, Amy,” Janet said from the kitchen, and I nearly fell out of my chair. How did she know this criminal’s name? “I’ve packed up my room already, and the kitchen is nearly ready to go.”

The thief set down a purse on John’s favorite recliner and began to take off her coat, apparently unaware of my increasing agitation. “Thank you, Yanet.” She turned to me with an exhausted smile. “How are you feeling today, Mom?”

“Quite scandalized, thank you very much,” I snapped. “What on earth are you doing in my house?”

Something inside her eyes seemed to wilt, and I took it as a small victory. “We talked about this last week. You’re moving, remember? We went and toured a facility closer to me. You said you liked the garden.”

An invader and a liar, then. “I never went to any facility. And I most certainly am not moving. I’ve lived here for thirty years; my husband died here, and I will too.”

Yanet stood then. “Why don’t I bring you some tea?”

“I don’t want tea. I want you to call the police and report a housebreaking.”

“She isn’t breaking in, Evelyn. You’re perfectly safe.”

“I think not.”

The women exchanged a glance nothing short of conspiratorial before the intruder made her way into the kitchen. “What else needs boxing?” she said.

“Just the china. I figured you’d want to wrap it yourself.”

“Yes, thank you.”

It was that impetuous conversation, which I had been promptly shoved out of, that had me making my way into the kitchen in a rage. Not only was this lying woman breaking into my home, but she intended to steal my mother’s china!

“What kind of tea would you like?” Janet asked, placing an arm around my shoulders. To seize me, no doubt. Perhaps this was an abduction, too.

I shook her off. “No tea, Yanet, and I believe I already said that. My memory’s not that bad, you know.”

“Of course. I only meant that perhaps you’d like to go relax, and—”

The clatter of dishes got my attention. The invader had now opened the upper right-hand cabinet of the kitchen and was emptying its contents onto the island, and at this point in the story, I must admit to the count of raising my voice, because I did shout at her to unhand my things and leave my house at once. It did, naturally, occur to me as odd that she knew where I kept the good china, but I suppose any good burglar cases their mark before attacking. 

Immediately upon my outburst, my guard sprang into action with soothing words, insisting that this woman, who clearly meant to steal from me, posed no threat and was simply going to box the dishes, not take them away.

But it was when Yanet—that scheming Commie—urged me to “Come sit down, Evelyn,” and “Perhaps have a slice of fruit”, it all clicked; and, of course, I admit that I must have been an idiot not to see it earlier. This woman was no ordinary burglar, but a Russian, finally come to plunder the United States, and in cahoots with the government plant right under my nose. Perhaps the missiles finally had been launched, and as the peninsula of Florida burned, the accompanying foot soldiers had swarmed the upper half of the state. 

It is then that I plead hysterics, esteemed jury. Imagine, if you will, being set upon by Soviet invaders in your own home! And as every American would do during an invasion, I fought back, with all the fervor of a cornered Southern woman.

My captor had, of course, planned for such opposition, and with all the house’s knives and guns locked away, I resorted to the pair of kitchen scissors sitting by an open bag of oranges. 

“Mom, wait—”

“Amy, please step back—”

“JOHN, DEAR, WE ARE BEING ROBBED—”

After that, matters become regrettably muddled. 

More Soviet soldiers flooded the house and took me away (their measly attempts to disguise themselves as local policemen didn’t fool me), which brings us, esteemed jury, to my present, dismal accommodations. I write to you from their top-secret holding facility, some hospital with reinforced glass and machines that beep incessantly. I’ve been interrogated numerous times by their mad scientists, who have the ugly tendency to ask personal health questions rather than inquire after nuclear codes. 

And that woman has come back to haunt me nearly every day, usually with flowers and a dubious amount of tears. On the rare days when my captors allow my daughter to visit (no doubt to keep me from revolting), I make sure to alert her to the identity fraud that she has found herself victim to. 

As you can clearly see, I am neither crazy nor a criminal; I have fulfilled my patriotic duty of defending the homeland from these filthy Communists who now hold me prisoner. I fight, of course, against the prosecution’s suggested prison sentence, but I pursue even more fervently acquittal. 

Though I implore you to see the truth in my account and remove all charges against me, the matter now rests with you.