Bloodline(64)

“Try me.”

“I have a scar on my upper left arm.”

“Vaccination scar?”

“Yep, smallpox. But here’s the thing. It’s in the shape of a figure eight almost.”

“That happens sometimes.” She sounds polite but bored. “Sometimes certain bloodlines will have a similar adverse reaction to a vaccination. It’s uncommon but not unheard of. Most of the time, though, it’s a bad batch creating a specific reaction.”

Exactly what Dr. Krause mentioned during my first visit with him.

“Could one batch be shipped to different states?”

“It’s possible.”

I’m about to ask my last question when something clicks into place. It wouldn’t have to be possible. Kris said his first memory after Lilydale was in San Diego, the city I was living in when I stole the pearl necklace for my mom. Both he and I could have easily gotten vaccinated there from the same bad lot. Deck having a similar reaction to another lot four years later was just one of those things. But was it coincidence that Kris and I were living in the same city at the same time when we were kids, and now we’re both in Lilydale?

“Is that it?” Her voice has gone from bored to annoyed.

“One more thing.” I’m thinking about the locket taped to the back of my toilet, the one containing ancestral dirt. “You mentioned the German bloodline here in Lilydale. Do you know anything about Johann and Minna Lily?”

I hear her exhale through her nose. “Nothing other than that they’re Lilydale’s founders and that Lilydale is the state’s epicenter of German immigration. They really kept the marriages insular there. One of the shallowest gene pools in the country. The Stearns County Historical Society could tell you more. Are you familiar with them? They meet in Saint Cloud. I’m an honorary member but have never attended a meeting.”

I reach for the paper and pen next to the phone. “Do you have their number?”



I’m tempted to leave the house and walk to the phone booth to call the historical society. If I do that, though, I’m admitting that I think my phone is tapped, and that seems like a straight train to Crazy Town.

Browline Schramel and Mildred the Mouse live inside a telephone, one that Browline Schramel is always tinkering with.

I shake my head to loosen the story. I dial. When a woman answers, I give her the spiel about being with the Lilydale Gazette and writing an article about the town.

“Oh!” she says. “Lilydale is such a lovely village. I’ve driven through it many times. It has the perfect small-town feel. You’re so lucky that you get to live there!”

“Thank you,” I say through clenched teeth. “What can you tell me about the town?”

“It was founded in 1857, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

“By Michael Lily?” I’m testing her.

“No, dear, it was founded by Johann and Minna Lily. There’s quite an interesting story with those two. I’m going to run to the archives right now to make sure I have it right. Do you have a moment?”

“Yes.”

I hear the click again. I tell myself it’s only her setting down the phone, but my skin is crawling with tiny insects. I wait two minutes. Then three. At four, I am sure she’s never coming back. I’m about to hang up when I hear another click.

“Hello?” The voice is unfamiliar.

“Hello,” I say. “Where’s the woman I was speaking with earlier?”

“She had to take another call. Personal business. She told me you wanted to learn about the Lily family. Is there something I can answer for you?” The chilliness in her voice is unmistakable.

“The woman I was speaking with said there’s an interesting story about them. Do you know what that was?”

“Other than the fact that they came to a land they didn’t know and founded one of the most stable, kindest communities in Minnesota? I think that’s incredibly interesting.”

“Yes,” I say, the earth opening beneath me, swallowing me whole. They’ve gotten to the other woman, the first one I was speaking with. Their reach is wide. How wide? “I agree. It’s a wonderful town. Thank you for your time.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes. Thank you again.” I hang up. I sit at my typewriter and begin slamming the keys. I don’t even pretend it will be an article anymore. I just want to see the black words on white paper.

Lilydale, Minnesota, a town of 1,476 people, is ruled by a small cadre of men and women who call themselves the Fathers and Mothers. They look so normal and act so kind, these Fathers and Mothers, but they’re not. They rape women and kill the children, and they want my baby. I think they brought me here to—

The phone bleats, making me shriek. I yank the paper out of the typewriter and cram it into my pocket before I answer, my heart still beating so fast it’s dizzying.

“Hello?” My voice quavers. Have they seen me typing? Do they know I know?

“Joan?”

My relief is so strong that I whimper. “Benjamin. Can I call you back in five minutes?”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I just need to . . . I need to call you back.”

I hang up and race out of the house, but not before I burn what I typed, letting the charred flakes of paper drift into the sink.