Bloodline(24)

Libby was a melted puddle atop her batik bedspread.

“What is it?” I asked, dropping next to her.

Ursula gently stroked Libby’s hair. “Yeah, baby, why aren’t you getting ready for the party?”

Libby sat up. Her face was puffy from crying. I assumed her biology-major boyfriend must have dumped her. So positive was I that was the problem that when Libby said, “The rabbit died,” I initially glanced around the room, searching for a pet.

Then I understood. Libby was pregnant.

Ursula bundled her in a hug, and I piled on.

“We’ll figure it out, darling, don’t you worry,” Ursula said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “We’ll get this taken care of. Don’t you fret a bit.”

It took another ten minutes to calm Libby down, twenty more to stuff her into her Amelia Earhart costume. By the time the photograph was snapped of us later that evening, we were three women tumbled into each other, bright-eyed and open-mouthed with laughter, and I’d all but forgotten about Libby’s crisis. Ursula knew a person who knew a person, and it would be taken care of. Just a bump in the road.

“Like getting your tonsils out,” she’d said.

Ursula’s real-time question pulls me back into the moment. “And then what?” she asks.

Something sharp pierces the cottony fog of memory. When Slow Henry tries to rub against my ankles, I pull away, twisting the phone cord between my fingers. “What do you mean?”

“Joanie,” she says softly. “You have to stop making up your stories. You spin everything better or worse than it is. You know what happened to Libby that night. After the party.”





CHAPTER 15

“I know,” I say, defiantly, tugging on the phone cord. Of course I remember, if I make myself. But where’s the point in that? That’s something my mom taught me.

Remember the good, only the good. Don’t borrow trouble from the past.

A headache is beginning to bear down on my temples, clamping my head and squeezing. I need to get off the phone.

“I’m sorry, Ursula. I haven’t been the same since Mom died.” It’s unfair to use my mother like this, but I can’t bear to have Ursula doubt me. “I haven’t been the same since. Then the move, and the pregnancy. It’s a lot, is all.”

“I know, Joan.” Her voice is so relieved. “That’d be a lot for anyone. I’m so glad you see that it’s temporary, that it’ll pass. Do you have a good doctor in Lilydale?”

“The best,” I lie. It’s harmless, something I say to make her feel better. It’ll be true enough soon, in any case, if Deck is right about Dr. Krause.

“All right, then.” She talks cheerily for a few more minutes, telling me about the Ansafone her boyfriend’s just bought for her so she’ll never miss another of his calls, the far-out party she attended last week, the new dress she’s going to buy. I’m so tired when we finally hang up.

I lean my head against the window, but it’s too warm, absorbing the heat of the day. I need to get out of this house.

Slow Henry follows me to the bathroom, mewing for my attention as I remove my hair rollers, watching the curls stretch and snap back. I apply my new raspberry lipstick, blot it on a tissue and then pop my lips to set it, throw on some mascara, grab the concert article I wrote for the Gazette, and then glide out into the day, feeling a weight lift the minute I step into the sunshine.

The simple, happy sounds of small-town life buzz in my ear. A chorus of lawnmowers trimming yards, neighbors calling to each other across fences, the hum of cars traveling at a safe speed. I breathe deeply as I make my way downtown. Ursula was right. I completely overreacted about Lilydale. I was an unreasonable baby. I won’t let that happen again. The air smells fresh and green, like just-cut grass. The dress I chose hides my pregnancy, not that it matters. The whole town knows, and I still landed the job at the newspaper. For all the lack of privacy in Lilydale, I doubt I would have been able to say the same had I stayed at the Minneapolis Star.

The Gazette’s offices are across from Schmidt Insurance. I didn’t bother to notice the building next door to the Gazette when I went for my interview yesterday. Or rather, I did, and wrote it off as empty. I overlooked the white insignia embedded in the granite keystone because it didn’t mean anything to me. Today I recognize it as the same symbol as on Deck’s lapel pin, a large capital V held in the divot of a small capital M.

I press my face to the glass of the front door. A circle of folding chairs dominates the center of the room, and a dark chunk of wood, possibly an out-of-place wet bar, is shoved against the back wall. It reminds me of a lonely community center or church basement. Deck has clearly overestimated the Fathers and Mothers’ influence. Definitely nothing to get bent out of shape about.

I walk next door. The Gazette’s offices are closed. I expected as much on a Saturday. I rest my purse and portfolio on the pavement, remove the concert article, fold it into thirds, and tuck it into an envelope I brought. I scribble “Dennis Roth, from JH” on the front and drop the envelope through the mail slot.

The weather is beautiful. Blooming lilacs are sweet as honey in the air, and the light-purple color against the bright-green leaves is breathtaking. I remain charmed by the fact that I can walk everywhere I need to go. I decide on the spot to make a delicious dinner for Deck this evening. I’ll buy chicken, and rice, and canned carrots. I will even pick up the ingredients I need to bake a cake from scratch.