Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  The rest of the women stopped here and there to visit the graves of relatives while Denise took pictures of the oldest headstones, some imported from Germany and others, more simple ones, made of local stone. Some of the graves held the remains of immigrants who were buried eighty, ninety years ago. Karen stood before one that bore a familiar surname, her mother’s. Katerina and Johann, geboren and gestorben. Born and died. Karen felt guilty, alive under the bright sunshine, thriving in the twenty-first century, comforted by all manner of modern invention. What debt did she owe them, those plain-faced great-aunts and grannies? Done with their short, hard enlistments, their bodies worn out from bearing children and tilling the soil, they lay waiting for her to make their efforts worthwhile. They had cast their hopes into the future on the shoulders of their progeny. Had she justified their sacrifice?

  Stopping at her parents’ graves, Karen crouched down and touched the letters of her mother’s name, carved into the headstone and adorned with twin sheaves of wheat. It wasn’t her first viewing of the stone. Lena and Frank had ordered them years ago when they bought the plots of land for their final resting place. Gruesome, Karen had thought at the time, but now she understood her mother would be reassured to know where she would lie at the end.

  “How are you doing?” Lorraine grasped Karen’s shoulder.

  Karen, wiping her eyes, backed away from the newly-turned earth. “Sometimes it’s too much.”

  “Let’s rest.”

  They meandered toward a shaded bench and sat. Already the grass was yellowing at the tips, and soon the afternoons would turn steamy, brewing up thunderstorms and the occasional tornado. Southwestern North Dakota wasn’t an easy place. Unlike the dark, rich farmland in the eastern part of the state, here on the highlands the land was dry and windswept on its westward climb toward the Rocky Mountains.

  Lorraine pulled off her big floppy sun hat and shook out her hair. “You’re processing a lot right now. Take it easy. Breathe.”

  “So much is changing, I feel disoriented.”

  “Then slow down and take it all in. You have a lot of years ahead of you.”

  Karen chuckled. “You’re younger than me. How come you sound so smart?”

  “I’m not so smart, but Mom always told me it’s my life and I should be the one to make the big decisions. So don’t let us or anybody else pressure you.”

  “‘Man plans, and God laughs.’ Or something like that.” Karen picked up a rock and tried to scrape off the tiny cactus sticking to the side of her sneakers. Only a fool would wear sandals to this cemetery.

  They watched Denise work, angling this way and that for the perfect shot of the old headstones.

  “I can’t believe this is so close to your house,” Karen said. “You drive a half hour and you’re standing right on top of the original homesteads. You can see a tree still growing that was planted by the first relatives to set foot in America, and you can sit by their graves, if you want.”

  “Not like we ever do,” said Lorraine. “I know they’re here and that comforts me, but I don’t come out here. We go to work, come home, eat dinner, do chores, go to bed, and on the weekends, we run errands.”

  Karen gazed across the open landscape. “In California, every- body is from another place, and nobody stays put. They move in, they move out. The house next door to mine back home is only fifteen years old and it’s had three owners already. By contrast, this,”– she opened her arms to take in the whole of the countryside,– “seems so permanent.”

  The two women fell silent as Denise folded up her tripod. Then they drove back across the highway and down another dirt road, this one heading east. The Jeep turned in at an abandoned homestead and parked beside a rusting tractor. “This farm is still in Glenda’s family,” Lorraine said. “We’re going to have lunch here.”

  Glenda gathered the group around her. “There’s a creek down here behind the barn, and a nice shady place to eat. Follow me.”

  The women followed carrying chairs, food, and picnic supplies. Their sneakers mashed down the overgrown grass as they trod, single file, through a grove of whispering cottonwoods to a lush clearing.

  “Who wants wine?” Marlene opened a bottle of chilled Riesling and passed it around, followed by a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches. Someone brought potato chips; another, grapes; a third, brownies.

  “So, what did you think about your mom’s old place?” asked Denise. “Was it how you remembered it?”

  Karen shook her head. “There’s nothing left of what I remember.”

  “It’s all going. We’re at that age,” said Glenda.

  “Speak for yourself.” Denise finished her sandwich and began fitting a new lens to her camera. “Did you know most of the farmers lived in soddies all their lives? They whitewashed the walls and sealed the dirt floors with a mixture of water and cow manure, which hardened into a smooth surface. Tough people. Kind of an inspiration.”

  “Mom never mentioned cow poop floors.”

  “Denise is our historian,” said Glenda.

  “You can’t do photo-documentaries without getting caught up in the research,” said Denise. “Who wants to look for shells?”

  Marlene and Denise rolled up their pant legs and waded out into the creek while the others lolled around like overfed pups. Karen unbuttoned her waistband for the small relief it gave her. Usually she was much more careful about portions, but ever since she arrived, she’d eaten like a horse. Maybe she’d go for a walk later.

  The sound of splashing and shrieking brought her back. Glenda laughed at the women in the creek. “They’re like a couple of kids.”

  Karen reached upward, stretching and yawning, more relaxed than she’d been in months. Denise trudged up the bank and held out a handful of dripping shells. “Look what we found. They’re Lampsilis radiata shells. The Native Americans made them into tools. See? It’s the tip of a knife.”

  Marlene trailed behind her. “Like fossils,” she said, wiping her hands on her shorts.

  “Native Americans lived here for four thousand years before us,” said Denise. “These were their ancestral hunting grounds. When the government opened it up for homesteading, the native people were so pissed off they started murdering everybody.”

  “That’s what I would have done.” Lorraine held out her glass and Karen emptied the rest of the wine into it. Overhead in the rustling cottonwoods, songbirds tried to drown out each other’s territorial claims. Dappled shade splashed patterns across the remains of their picnic. Eyes closed, Lorraine rested her head against the chair back. Denise had flopped down on a blanket, and Marlene’s head was dipping. The brook rippled across small stones, and cicadas began buzzing overhead.

  Karen tried to imagine up a similar space in Orange County where she could find the same respite. The Back Bay at Newport came to mind, but that was often busy with cyclists and other nature lovers. Here, though, in the farmlands around Dickinson, solitude was abundant.

  I could live here, she thought.

  “Nothing stopping you,” said Glenda.

  Karen opened one eye. “Did I say that?”

  “You mumbled something about living here and so I say, move. Nothing stopping you now.”

  Karen stared at Lorraine, who grinned. “There’s no such thing as a secret in Dickinson,” she said.

  “Don’t let it throw you,” said Denise. “I’ve been single almost a year now. It gets easier. Good time for introspection. You can find your authentic self.”

  “Authentic self, my butt. Just get the biggest settlement you can.” Marlene tossed the empty wine bottle in the trash bag.

  Glenda folded up her chair and slung it over her shoulder. “Ladies, I’m out of here. I have to drop by the clinic and sign some checks. Karen, you’ve seen big-city health care. Want to see how the other half lives?”

  Chapter Nine

  GLENDA TURNED ONTO the two-lane highway away from town and headed deeper into farm country. Rows of evergreen trees ran from north to south
, protecting the farm fields from wind and reminding Karen of the Christmas tree farms back in California. In the middle of a yellow canola field stood a herd of deer, antlers still covered in velvet.

  Twenty miles south they drove into the remote community of Regent, which consisted of a sleepy main street and a few dozen houses. Glenda parked in front of an old feed store bearing the name Farmers Health Collective. Inside the clinic, crayon drawings by school children were taped up on the walls and soft music wafted from an iPod player at the receptionist’s window. Two women thumbed through magazines while a child played in the corner with alphabet blocks.

  Glenda waved to the receptionist. “Is Annie around?”

  “She’s giving a tetanus shot. Should be done any time.”

  “Would you ask her to see me? I’ll be in my office.”

  Karen followed Glenda down the hall and into a cramped room. On the desk, a multicolored array of case folders was stacked next to medical textbooks. A teddy bear, clad in surgical scrubs, grinned at them from the top of the books.

  Karen spotted the nameplate on the door. “You’re the boss?”

  Glenda reached in the drawer and pulled out a jar of candy. “Unofficially. There’s a chief physician in Grand Forks who’s technically responsible for the whole network, but I only see him a couple times of year. Otherwise, we do video conferencing, email, and phone calls. Want a peppermint?”

  Karen unwrapped a candy and popped it in her mouth. “I’m guessing you’re the main health care in the area?”

  “Yup.” Glenda leaned back in her chair, put her feet up, and rolled a peppermint around in her mouth. “The only. We serve the whole south end of the county. If they need more, they go to Bismarck or Dickinson.”

  “You’re pretty far away from things. Is it hard to find staff?”

  Glenda nodded. She gestured toward the door and lowered her voice. “I’m worried about my assistant, Annie. She’s burning out. She doesn’t complain but I can tell. There isn’t much more I can do to make things easier. The work is what it is.”

  “How’s the pay?”

  “About two-thirds of what they can earn in Grand Forks or Bismarck, but the cost of living is proportionate, and it’s a lot quieter out here at night. Lots of stars.”

  “Hard to hire people based on that.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Karen rolled the candy wrapper between her fingers until it was shaped like a ball. Laughter resonated from down the hall, and a copier hummed outside the door. Hand-made mobiles of colored foil dangled in front of the windows, reflecting the late afternoon sun. The pen scratched across paper as Glenda signed checks. The clinic had that peaceful, Friday afternoon feeling she missed.

  When a shriek knifed through the air, Glenda was out the door before Karen had managed to stand up. They reached the waiting room just as a young woman lost her hold on her husband. He slipped to the floor, leaving streaks of blood on his wife’s chest. Glenda knelt at his side while the receptionist tucked a jacket under his head. One of the other patients braced herself against the far wall, hands covering her mouth.

  “Easy, easy, Johnny, we’re here.” Glenda tucked a stethoscope under his shirt and cocked her head. The man’s blond hair was dark with sweat, and a blood-soaked towel was wrapped around his right hand.

  His wife clutched the other. “He was working on the thresher,” she said, “and the wheel turned when he wasn’t expecting. The blade fell on his arm. I saw it out the kitchen window.”

  A woman knelt beside Glenda with a satchel of medical instruments.

  “Annie. Thank God you’re here.”

  Annie filled a syringe and handed it over.

  Karen stood back, her nostrils flaring at the metallic tang of blood. The young wife stared at her husband, who moaned as the soothing molecules of morphine began circulating through his system. Glenda and Annie prepared to transfer the man to a gurney.

  The receptionist touched the wife on the shoulder. “Lanie, you can ride in the ambulance.”

  “How can I? I got cows, and the kids’re about due home from school.” The woman, looking at her husband, began to tremble. “What am I gonna do? I told him to be careful. He thinks he’s a gosh-darn hero all the time.”

  “Most men do.” Karen stifled her urge to bolt out the door and instead knelt down next to Lanie. Working in the administrative offices of an HMO was very different from doing actual medicine. Lanie smelled of sweat and blood.

  “I thought we’d never get here. The darned truck died every time I slowed down. I thought he was gonna bleed to death.”

  “When did it happen?” asked Glenda.

  “‘Bout fifteen minutes ago.”

  Karen checked the clock on the wall. It was almost three.

  “The kids’ll be getting home from school, and I always pick them up at the bus stop. If I’m not there they’ll worry. And the cows need milked. We got two of ‘em.” Lanie wiped snot and tears against the back of her hand.

  “Do you have a neighbor?” asked Karen. “Somebody you can call?”

  “John’s folks can meet me at the farm but they’re gonna want to head to Bismarck right away. I’m shakin’ so bad, I don’t think I can drive. Can you help me?”

  Karen hesitated. After so many years in the big city, she was leery of getting pulled into the drama of strangers. If she could hand this duty off to someone else–but there was no one. Glenda, Annie, and the receptionist had their hands full.

  She picked up Lanie’s purse. “Let’s go.”

  “Are they going to move him pretty soon?” Glenda nodded.

  “We’ll hurry.” Karen held the door open. They ran to Lanie’s truck, a rusting green hulk with a horse blanket across the front seat. Karen got behind the wheel and stopped cold when she saw the three-speed shifter on the steering column. She glanced over at Lanie, who seemed about to pass out. Running quickly through memories from her teen years, Karen took a deep breath, pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and gassed it slightly. She eased the gearshift into what she hoped was reverse. Clenching her jaw, she let the clutch out slowly, and the truck started backward. She covered the brake pedal with her right foot until the truck had rolled back enough, wiggling the shifter around until it slipped into first gear. Just as the old Chevy began to stutter forward, Lanie yanked her door open and threw up.

  A half hour later, Karen was perched on a three-legged stool with her forehead nudged up against the warm flank of a cow. Pigeons cooed from the rafters overhead. She hadn’t figured on milking, but Lanie needed the help. Karen tugged gently on the cow’s teat. Nothing in her city-girl adult life prepared her for this. The cow snorted.

  “It’s the opposite of what your hand is used to.” Lanie, milking the cow next to her, had calmed with the routine of chores. Her own bucket was already half-full. “Get your hand up by the top, right against the bag, then tighten your grip from the index fingers down, that will squeeze the milk from top to bottom so it comes down through the teat. Alternate your hands and get a rhythm. Remember, it’s not pulling, she won’t appreciate that. You get kicked and I’ll be taking you to the doc’s, too.”

  A giggle escaped the little girl who leaned against her mother’s shoulder. “Mommy, she don’t know how.”

  Karen got in a good squeeze, and the milk squirted out.

  “Hush. She’s getting it now.” Lanie grinned at Karen. “You keep at it, miss. You’re doing’ fine.”

  A truck pulled up out front, its front tires biting hard into the gravel.

  “Grandpa’s here! Grandpa’s here!” shouted the little girl.

  “Go in the house and tell Buddy we’re leaving in two minutes.” Lanie took the bucket from Karen and poured it into her own. “You can drive yourself back in the truck. Just leave the keys in it.” Lanie quick-walked out of the barn, milk sloshing from the bucket.

  Chapter Ten

  THE REST OF THE WEEK passed quietly. Every morning, Karen let the sun awaken her, ate a hearty brea
kfast and read the Dickinson Press. Using the internet signal from a router somewhere in the neighborhood, she handled as much work as was possible, with help from Peggy and Stacey. Wes checked in periodically but seemed oblivious to the game.

  Every few days she went to Mass with Aunt Marie, for no better reason than she had the time and she wanted to be a good houseguest. It turned out to be a pretty good form of meditation, forcing her to slow down and relearn the rituals.

  Karen wasn’t geared for sitting around doing nothing, so she helped with housework and laundry, weeded the garden, and shopped for groceries. Aunt Marie taught her a few simple recipes, meals that had strengthened the backbone of the Midwest for the better part of a century: Swiss steak smothered in brown gravy with a hint of barbeque sauce; scalloped potatoes from scratch; and pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans, all baked together in a Pyrex bowl. And although the calories and fat content nagged at her, Karen found herself sleeping better than she had in years.

  On Friday they went for lunch at a downtown diner. The waitress, a plain-faced woman with a mare’s rear end, led them to a booth at the front of the diner where they could watch the action on Villard Street. A few minutes later, Lorraine slid into the booth wearing stylish trousers, heels, and a blazer. As her mother gave her an update, Lorraine unwrapped a straw, laughing. “You’re not getting that much rest, Cuz.”

  “I’m relaxing. It’s nice.” Karen glanced at the lunch menu. It looked like a choice between fried and fried. She chose a Reuben, figuring she’d burn it off doing chores.

  Lorraine ordered soup. “I can’t stay long. Everything’s crazy at the office.”