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PREPARE YOURSELF
FOR A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE
Mendal W. Johnson's
LETS GO PLAY AT THE ADAMS'
"The unbearable tension of a silent scream . . . Johnson
is telling us some horrifying things about the hidden re-
cesses of the human psyche . . . Wonderfully skillful.''
---Detroit Free Press
"Proceeds at d breathless pace, as horror multiplies it-
self in geometric progression."
^-Hartford Timet
**A superb new novel of suspense, which will hold the
reader in its grip of horror until the last page."
—Atlantic City Press
GO PLAY
LET^S
AT THE ADAMS^
W*
Mendal Johnson
GOLDEn APPLE PUBLISHERS
To my wife,
Ellen Argo Johnson
This low-priced Golden Apple Book
has been completely reset in a type face
designed for easy reading, and was printed
p-om new plates. It contains the complete
text of the original hard-cover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
LET'S GO PLAY AT THE ADAMS'
A Golden Apple Publication / published by arrangement with
Thomas Y. Crowell Company
Golden Apple edition / December 1984
Golden Apple is a trademark of Golden Apple Publishers
All rights reserved.
Copyright '0 1974 by Mendal W. Johnson.
Cover copyright © 1984 by Golden Apple Publishers.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by
mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: Golden Apple Publishers,
666 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10103.
ISBN 0-553-19829-7
PRINTED IN CANADA
CXXVER PRINTED IN U.S.A.
0987654321
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—
On t—he keyboard of a piano ^in this case, it is an up-
right are two neatly positioned pairs of hands. To the
right is the pair (at C above middle C) which may be
fairly s—aid to be the hands of a girl. They are terribly
slend—er only girls, only the young have hands like
that and they are finn and strong and tanned. There
is a decorative ring on the right hand but nothing on
the left: the girl is not yet engaged or married. The
hands are spread into a C-major chord and waiting.
They begin. —
What they are playing and well enough—is
"The Happy Farmer." It—'s a rather insis—tent small tu—ne
that goes, "—Dum dum ^boom, boom dum dum
boom, boom dum dum dum rfww," etc. It goes to a
similar conclusion. It is an inevitable tune; people have
been toying with it for centuries.
The hands disappear.
"OK, now you try it."
Now
it is the turn of the other pair of hands, the
ones to the left, the pudgy, sunburned (but well-
scrubbed) little hands. They strain awkwardly. Th—ey
achieve the necessary chord and begin: "Dum dum
boom, boom (mistake).'* They reposition themselves
and begin agaui.
"Come on now. You can do—that after church."
"Just let me. Just once more now?"
"OK, but you come when I honk the horn. I don't
want to be late." The longer, more slender hands puU
1
on a pair of short white gloves that stop exactly at the
wrist. "Now, Where's Bobby? Bo\>eeer
"I'm coming. But it's early. We never leave un-
til—"
"Let me see your hands.**
These hands are also more or less clean,- but they
are definitely boy's hands. Against the white gloves that
hold them, they look knuckle-barked, calloused and in-
nately grubby in spite of their recent washing. Nonethe-
less they pass inspection.
"OK, let's go, Cindy."
"Com-ing, Miss Barbara." There is some tnicu-
lence here.
"You don't have to use Miss with me.'*
"Mommy
said to."
"All right, if she said so.**
The parents are in Europe, so that the children
are driven to church by the baby-sitter. They make a
pleasant sight.
Cindy Adams, the smaller piano player, is an imp-
ish little girl of ten. She is pretty enough, and she has
brown hair cut rather short for summer, because with
swimming and moist heat, it wants to spring into curls
and spirals and tangles and become immanageable. She
is the sort of child that grown-ups instinctively want to
pat
Bobby Adams, her brother, is oddly enough the
beauty. He is about thirteen, thin and fair, with high
coloring to his cheeks and fine, blond hair that requires
water and sticky stuff to keep it from floating around
his head in an unruly halo. He rarely smiles, and he of-
ten stands in thought with his hands thrust straight
down, as deep as they will go in his pockets. This posi-
tion, rare in a youngster, is an unconscious copy of the
position his surgeon father often takes in conversation.
The white-gloved hands that swing the family sta-
tion wagon into the churchyard, belong to the baby-sit-
ter-pianist, Barbara. When she gets out of the car to let
the children out, it is with an athletic little leap. She is
2
—
probably twenty not much more. She wears a white
dress of extremely diplomatic appeal. It is short enough
to show off her legs and pass with her generation and
yet long enough to show her deference to the older gen-
eration and the social order of things.
Barbara is also not pretty in the sense that movie
professionals are p—retty. She is better than that: she is
young and—downy or so you would say from looking
at her face and she likes everyone. You can see it in
the way she shepherds the children off to Sunday
School and in the way she is rather instantly accepted
by the older, generally cautious group in the church-
whom
yard, all of are strangers to her.
The morni—ng passes easily enough. Downstairs in
Sunday School Cindy squ—irming, Bobby sitting with
that thoughtful look of his they hear—about how Our
Lord cured people. Upstairs they hear ^Barb—ara sitting
with white gloves folded neatly in her lap that in
times of change and uncertainty the words of Jesus
have even more relevance than before.
Afterward they all sing. It is a pretty and simple
sound: "Jesus, our God and Father," and so on and so
forth.
When s—ervices are over, everyone stands in the
shad—ed yard it will be paved next year; now it is all
dust and discusses the county news. Call it gossip.
The Adams are well known here, for all the fact
that they are not natives. Dr. Adams has contributed to
the paint, the piano, and the plantings. Mrs. Adams has
participated in the cake bakes and fund-raising affairs.
There is a Uttle cynicism in this, and there is a
certain amount of friendliness. For cynicism, everyone
knows that the Adams are not godly people, at least
not in the sense of this county of the Eastern Shore of
Maryland. It's all for show. Quite on the other hand,
everyone understands that by so participating in the
church doings, the Adams are doing their dead level
best to be friends with their adopted com—munity. Dr.
Adams—' hand is extended and taken, and in his ab-
sence the hand of the community is extended into the
3
slender one of the baby-sitter, Barbara, who stands
daisy-white and bright outside beneath the mimosas.
Tomorrow, or on some tomorrow, she will be a
part of so—me community with childr—en of her own and
plans and well, sometimes we must cake bakes. It is
a soothing future, one which she has considered all her
life, or perhaps a picture instilled into her long ago.
Nonetheless, it is n—ice, and here she enjoys the vision.
H—er thought this is as close as it comes to
words is, Who will he be who gives me aU this? Ted?
She frowns to herself.
—So, everyon—e mills around until Sunday School lets
out late today and the children come out to claim
parents. Because there are a lot of fond old-timers here
today, there is also a lot of ohing and ahing by the
grandparents' groups, and this the children endure with
as much good grace as possible. After all, the Lord said
to be kind. Then Bobby and Cindy and Barbara get
into the station wagon to go home and go swimming in
the river on whose banks the Adams house is built
There i—s a last item. As they get into the rather
flossy wagon it is air-conditioned and has—tinted glass
and pretty much the whole option sheet they find
their way out momentarily blocked by pickers. This is
a group of migrant workers walking along the country
road on foot.— —
Nearby ^it is woodsy hereabouts ^there are com-
mercial orchards, and at this late time of summer, the
pickers arrive and harvest the fruit. It is hard work,
back-bending work, and very poorly paid. Nonetheless
their arrival signals the end of the summer, and when
they have gone again like a flock of dark Latin birds,
fall will begin.
"Who are they?*' Barbara, with 425 cubic inches
of piston displacement under her small foot in the
family wagon, is impatient
"I dunno."
"Pickers," Bobby says. **Nobody."
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