Bloodline(12)

It took me a few seconds. When I got it, I smiled, and the smile turned to laughter to match Deck’s. The Gobbler. Deck’d squired me away to the themed hotel one state over the month before. The Gobbler was shaped like a turkey—he said that wasn’t unusual for Wisconsin—and the rooms contained wall-to-wall shag carpeting, heart-shaped beds, and mirrors nailed to the ceiling. I hadn’t been able to stop giggling at the cheesy place. Deck had other plans, though, plans that involved champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries and a passion so combustible that I’d forgotten to remind him to wear a condom.

“We’re gonna have a baby,” Deck said, the laugh gone, his jaw rock solid.

“I guess we are,” I replied. It’s what he wanted.

And here I am, living in postcard-perfect Lilydale, finally at peace with that decision. Not just at peace. Thrilled. The smell of cut grass, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the feeling of tending to my home for my baby. It’s overpowering. The sense of satisfaction is so strong that I want to share it with someone.

I’ll bring Deck lunch. Surely he’ll have half an hour to eat with his “wife” and hear her blather about yard work. I smile at the joke. Deck and I’ve taken to calling ourselves Mister and Missus when we’re alone, laughing at the idea of it, at the thought of the harmless wool we’re pulling over the town’s eyes.

A shower is in order before I embark on the ten-minute walk downtown. Once clean, I towel off and wander upstairs to don a short-sleeve white blouse with a Peter Pan collar and grape-colored cotton knit capris. I decide to leave my hair in its ponytail. I’ve wanted to cut it short ever since I spotted Mia Farrow’s scandalous pixie cut on the front cover of last August’s Vogue. The courage has never found me, though, and Lilydale certainly isn’t the place to adopt a statement hairstyle.

I head out toward Schmidt Insurance, which is nestled in the middle of Lilydale’s busiest street—I chuckle at the thought of any place in Lilydale being considered busy—with Little John’s bar anchoring one corner and Tuck’s Cafe the other.

I stroll up Belmont to River Street, the sunburn sinking a pleasant tightness into my flesh. Deck likes it when my skin browns. At the corner of James Street and Augusta, I pause to glance left at the Creamery, the largest building in Lilydale. It’s a buzzing concrete factory that processes all of Stearns County’s milk. Deck was proud when he told me, as if he were the one singlehandedly transforming raw dairy into neat, square cartons of milk.

A soft smile creases my cheeks.

Men. Needing to feel important.

I’m nearly across Augusta when I glance at the Creamery one more time. From this angle, I spot a small crowd gathered at the edge of the railroad tracks. They remind me of a cluster of sugar ants on a crumb. I want to ferry Deck’s sandwiches to him before they turn in the heat, but my reporter’s instincts (when will Ronald set up my interview at the paper?) propel me toward the group. It’s such an odd place to gather, especially for folks dressed for business. What are they all staring at? Something on the ground.

I itch for a pad of paper and a pencil. The ache of not working, of not telling stories, is sudden and strong. The emotion catches me off guard and dilutes the domestic bliss I was about to share with Deck. I suddenly feel queasy, a lotus-eater who should have been doing real work. Deck has allowed me a subscription to two newspapers—the Minneapolis Star and the New York Times—so I can stay abreast of world affairs, but I’ve been so busy painting and cleaning and building my nest that I’ve hardly opened them except to spread on the floor and catch the paint drips.

If I’m honest, it’s not just that I’ve been busy remodeling. Lilydale is so soothing, so apart from the world. Race riots. War. Strikes. It’s somehow rude to invite all that ugliness here by reading my newspapers. The slow pace has even lulled me into letting Deck control my career rather than simply taking care of it myself.

What the hell?

Well, I’m waking up now. Whatever everyone is staring at, it’s directly on the train tracks, not alongside. Their legs part enough that I can see a flash of muscled, mangled red. I catch a whiff of something gamy.

The smell raises the baby hairs on the back of my neck.





CHAPTER 8

A woman separates herself from the edge of the crowd just when I can almost make out what they’re circling.

“Joan!”

I recognize her from the first night I arrived—tuna noodle hot dish and crème de menthe squares—but the group of people staring silently at the ground has shaken me.

“Mildred Schramel,” she says, accurately reading my face. “Teddy and I live down Mill Street from you, near the school. He works for the telephone company.”

Browline Schramel and Mildred the Mouse, living inside a telephone. I’m ashamed of myself for forgetting her name, even for a moment. That’s never happened to me before. I hope my smile is polite. “Of course. I haven’t wandered in your direction yet.”

Deck’s been encouraging me to get out, but other than necessary errands, I’ve kept to myself, just like I did in Minneapolis. I shake off my unease and point at the backs of the crowd ten feet away, their bodies clustered too tightly for me to see what they’re peering at. A dead animal, judging by the smell, but why in God’s name would they all be circled around it like that, just staring? “What’s happened here?”