Dakota Blues Box Set

by Lynne M Spreen

  Reluctant to go back to Rita’s, I took my time, savoring the tang of pepper trees on the cool winter breeze, and the gray-blue and dun-colored views of the San Jacinto Mountains. I did everything I could to stretch out the round, but after an hour and a half, I sank my ball at the ninth hole. As I approached the cart, my phone rang and I hurried to grab it.

  I recognized the North Dakota number. Smiling, I answered. “Good afternoon, Father.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I looked at the display.”

  “Oh, right. Right.” Poor Father Engel. He would never catch up with technology. Younger than me, he was an inadvertent Luddite. “How are you, Karen?”

  “Great. I’m just finishing up a round of golf in Palm Springs.” I slid my putter into the bag.

  “Oh, what a blessing that would be.”

  I was surprised. “Do you play, Father?”

  “I used to. Before—this.” He sighed. “I lost another one.”

  “Your secretary quit? But she only started a month ago.” I was constantly finding new employees for Father Engel. As kind and generous as he was, he could not hang on to office help.

  “Her request for adoption was approved, praise the Lord, and she wanted to prepare her home for the child’s arrival.”

  “She was only working part-time. She couldn’t do both?” I climbed into the cart and sat behind the wheel. Nobody was coming up behind me on the fairway, so I felt no need to move.

  “Her heart wasn’t in it. She was distracted and made a lot of mistakes in her last week.”

  I heard him sigh. The priest tended to let his employees walk all over him.

  “How about Lanie again?” Lanie Block had subbed a couple of times for the regular church secretary.

  Silence hung on the other end. Father Engel said, in a quiet voice, “Might there be another option?”

  Lanie, my reliable go-to office temp, was a big, steady, no-nonsense farm woman. Wherever she went, Lanie was a battleship in a field of indolent pleasure craft.

  Father Engel was afraid of Lanie.

  “You know she’ll straighten things out in one day.”

  He sighed again. “It must be God’s will.”

  “Exactly, Father. I’ll ask her to report tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Karen. You are a blessed servant of Christ.”

  “I try.” I hung up, smiling, and headed back to Rita’s house.

  Fern was on the patio, her walker off to the side of her chair.

  I sat at the table across from her. “What have you been up to?”

  “Enjoying the day.” She wouldn’t look at me, but I’d caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were red and bleary.

  Chapter 7

  FERN WAS TOUGH. I’D never seen her like this. Grabbing the chair next to her, I sat.

  She swallowed hard, still looking away.

  “Her plane doesn’t leave until three,” I said. “You could still—”

  Fern held up a hand for silence.

  For a few minutes, we watched hummingbirds around the feeder. I went inside, made two sandwiches, and carried them to the patio. We ate quietly, only our meager platitudes breaking the silence.

  Fern left me her keys and credit card to retrieve the truck and went to her room to take a nap.

  A cab dropped me at the airport. Standing in short-term parking, I looked up as a jet took off. Belle might have been aboard, flying away from us and toward her new life.

  I unlocked the truck and rolled down the windows, feeling a powerful need to commiserate with Jessie, but I knew she had her hands full with the babies. When Curt didn’t answer his phone, I left a message saying how much I loved and missed him. I stuck the phone in the console and picked my way through snowbird traffic to El Paseo, where I parked and meandered on foot past the high-end shops. The prospect of taking care of Fern for the next couple weeks weighed on me, but I was all she had. I hoped her ankle would heal quickly, allowing me to leave after her next doctor appointment. Until then, I would make the best of things.

  The sun was setting behind the mountains by the time I returned. Fern was sitting in her recliner, watching TV. I handed over the keys and the receipt for airport parking. “What do you want for dinner?”

  She shrugged. Belle’s absence hung over us like a cold, damp fog.

  In the kitchen, I prepped a New Orleans-style dirty rice dish and threw together a salad. “You want to eat in the kitchen?”

  “Right here’s good.” Fern reached behind her chair for a TV tray and opened it on her lap. I brought her dinner and a glass of wine, got my own and joined her in front of the television. At least we wouldn’t have to talk to each other. We each had a bowl of ice cream for dessert.

  After we finished, Fern handed her bowl and spoon to me. “Would you please bring me the wine bottle?”

  Wine after ice cream? I almost made a wisecrack but thought better of it. I brought out the bottle and filled a glass.

  She sipped it down a half-inch. “Sorry, you’re stuck here.”

  “I’m not stuck.”

  “Whatever.”

  While she drank wine and flipped through the channels, I went to my room and watched a movie on my laptop. When it ended, I went to check on her. She was still in the same spot.

  “I’m calling it a night,” I said.

  She lifted one hand and let it flop back down.

  I went to bed.

  OVER THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, I cooked meals, cleaned house, and ran errands. Fern didn’t respond much to my attempts to engage her in conversation. She read the newspaper, watched TV, drank wine, and napped. She called Belle frequently, leaving voicemails, but they never talked, and I assumed Belle wasn’t returning any messages.

  One morning, I managed to talk her into riding along in the golf cart while I played a half-round. She complimented a few of my shots, but mostly, she was silent, nibbling on her cuticles and staring off across the fairways.

  Another day, we went to the Living Desert, and she let me push her in a wheelchair, although she grumbled a lot. She probably thought nobody saw her taking nips from airline bottles stashed in her purse.

  I went for walks and golf cart rides to clear my head and update Curt and Jessie. I also checked in with some of the other CRS ladies. Candace, Margo, Doc and Patti were sympathetic, but they diplomatically steered clear of offering to help. Under any circumstances, Fern was prickly, but without the softening influence of Belle, people were leery of her. The injury only made her worse.

  Every day, Fern slept later. Sometimes I had to argue with her to change out of her pajamas and into the clean clothes I had folded and left on her bed. By the day of her doctor appointment, I was feeling desperate.

  Fern struggled into the waiting room on crutches and found a seat while I checked her in with the receptionist. When they called her name, she struggled to her feet and disappeared behind the door held by a nurse with a bland smile. I pulled out my phone and texted Jessie and Curt, hinting that I might soon be leaving and promising to update them as soon as I knew more.

  When Fern came out, she was still wearing her boot.

  I held the door and we walked slowly toward the truck. “What’d they say?”

  She handed me the crutches and climbed into the passenger side of the Silverado. “Not much.”

  “Is the ankle getting better?”

  “It’s healing normally for a person my age.”

  “How long before you can drive?”

  “They wouldn’t say.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  Annoyed, I got in behind the wheel. “Did you tell them you’re depressed?”

  “I’m not depressed. Are you depressed?” She glared at me through bloodshot eyes.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Listen to you.”

  “I’m just frustrated. I’d hoped there’d be some evidence of healing.”

  “You and me
both,” Fern said.

  I waited for a line of traffic to clear. “Let’s get lunch at Desert Willow. We can sit outside and watch the golfers hit up.”

  She looked out the window. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You have to eat actual food from time to time. You can’t just run on alcohol.”

  “Stop nagging me.”

  “This isn’t healthy. You’re falling apart.”

  “Karen, please shut the hell up.”

  I fumed silently all the way back to Rita’s. I was tired of Fern, tired of being her servant, and tired of living out of a suitcase. I missed my life in North Dakota. Curt was bumping around that big old farmhouse without me, the foal was barreling around the corral already, and Aunt Marie had been asking about me. She’d been more vague lately, and my absence made her unhappy.

  Fern didn’t want me there, anyway.

  I dropped her off, bought a cheeseburger for lunch, and drove to the park where Belle had done laps around the pond, trying to decide her future. The place was deserted. Not even the ducks appeared to beg for bread. I sat at the same picnic table, unwrapped the burger, and started working on my problem.

  Instantly, I lit on a possible solution. Even if Fern were resistant, I would hire a caregiver to come every few days. I’d pay for it myself, a month in advance just to be sure.

  Who was I kidding? Fern wouldn’t let them in the door.

  The only reason she tolerated me was because Belle let me in, that first night, and while Fern couldn’t kick me out, she could prevent anyone else from coming in.

  For a person who’d only recently learned not to be a doormat, I was surprised to have gotten myself stuck this way. I balled up my fast food bag, flung it into the trash can, and drove back to the house. Fern was dozing in front of the TV.

  I made dinner, a meatloaf recipe I remembered from Mom’s cookbook. We ate in the living room, watching the news and not talking.

  As I cleared the dishes, Fern asked for the whiskey bottle. I was used to her drinking wine right up until bedtime, but this seemed a new and worrisome escalation. Once she had the bottle, I went to my room to call Jessie and Curt with the nightly report.

  An hour later, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. Fern was looking at a fly-fishing show on TV. “Come watch,” she said. Her voice was warm, softened by the alcohol.

  “I’m not much into fishing.”

  “The scenery, though. Come see. It’s beautiful country. They filmed it by our house.”

  I glanced at the TV screen. Horses ranged through a grassy meadow ringed by jagged, snowcapped mountains. “Whose house?”

  “Mine and Belle’s.” She pointed at the sofa. “Watch.”

  Confused, I joined her. “I thought you were fulltime RVers.”

  “In our fifth-wheel?” Fern gave me a goofy, whiskey-fueled grin. “Be serious.”

  “Why not? It’s huge and gorgeous. I could live in it.”

  “Well, that’s you.” She looked back at the TV.

  She was drinking, so I hid my annoyance. “Where’s your house?”

  “I just said.” She waved at the TV. “There. Wyoming.”

  “I mean where in the state?”

  Fern heaved a great sigh, as if I’d asked to see her bank account.

  “Okay, never mind,” I said.

  “Get your phone. I’ll show you.”

  I tapped in the address she gave me. When the app loaded, I went to satellite view. A small roof appeared. It looked like a cabin in a rural area. “Cozy.”

  Fern leaned in “That’s the shed.” She touched the screen and dragged the image. “There.”

  It was a suburban-sized ranch-style home, probably three bedrooms, a couple baths, and two-car garage. “Looks like the perfect size,” I said.

  “That’s the guest house. Zoom out more.”

  A larger structure came into view. Much, much larger, with three chimneys, a tennis court, and a pool. Behind it were stables and an exercise ring. “Holy shit,” I said. “This is like a presidential compound.”

  “Yeah,” she chuckled. “My fortieth birthday present to myself.”

  “Is that an airplane out back?”

  She gave her glass another splash. “Cessna 310. I love that little bird. Not like she’s doing me any good now. Can’t even drive myself to the store.”

  I stared at the phone, my temples pounding. My mind raced, and my anger built as I realized Fern was freakin’ rich, while Belle would be living in poverty. She’d be renting a room from her sister and getting by on Social Security and Medicare, while Fern lived like a one-percenter.

  Then it hit me. Maybe this was why she hadn’t wanted to marry—to protect her vast wealth.

  Fern was mumbling. “All I want to do is go back there,” she said. “Get back to my normal life.”

  “Well yeah, who wouldn’t?” It was petulant, but I didn’t care. The nerve of this selfish woman. I wanted to pack my bags and leave immediately. Leave her alone and damn the consequences.

  Fern was observing me through the glassy eyes of a drunk. “What the hell did I say?”

  “I’m so glad you’re set for life.” I knew better than to argue, but I couldn’t help jabbing at her. “So what about Belle? What’s going to happen to her?”

  “Well, that is a complication—”

  “Yeah, I imagine it’s complicated.”

  “—since it’s all in her name,” mumbled Fern. “Not sure what we’ll do now.”

  Fern wasn’t enunciating clearly. I didn’t think I’d heard right. “In whose name?”

  “Property’s all hers. One hundred percent. Lock, stock, and barrel.” Fern drained her glass. “No big deal. I got more all over the country.”

  Chapter 8

  I SAT BACK AGAINST the sofa, staring at the muted television. Were they both playing me?

  Fern tried to pour more whiskey into her glass. Finding it too difficult, she gave up and drank straight out of the bottle, wiped the top with her shirttail and handed the bottle to me.

  I took a swig. I wanted to be drunk, too.

  “I knew it was crazy, giving her the whole thing, but you know how insecure she is. I wanted her to feel safe.”

  As Fern jabbered on in that self-satisfied tone, I knew I was done. I had to get away. I picked up my phone and stood.

  She looked up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Fern glared at me with those icy blue eyes. Belle’s diamond ring glittered from a gold chain around her neck. “Listen, girl. You don’t know anything. Do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.” Shaking with anger, I went to my room and started packing. I didn’t understand her or Belle, but it no longer mattered. This wasn’t my movie. The maid routine was over. It was time for me to go home.

  Yanking my clothes out of drawers, I began to see reality. Jessie, Rita and I thought Fern couldn’t function without us, which is why I was playing caretaker for this cranky, entitled old woman.

  But she didn’t need me. Fern was rich. She could have hired any help she wanted, and she didn’t want mine. How she chose to manage her convalescence was her decision, one we younger women had thought her incapable of making. I stopped in the middle of folding a blouse as I realized how much I’d backslid from the lessons of my fiftieth year, when my mother died, my marriage ended, and I was fired from my lifelong career. To deal with my grief and figure out the next phase, I’d traveled with Frieda from North Dakota to Utah in the old Roadtrek. Along the way I’d learned that I had to decide how to live my own life, or someone else would decide for me.

  Standing in Rita’s guest bedroom, the light dawned.

  Again.

  Like the old Karen, I’d put on my moth-eaten superhero cape, forgetting those lessons. Forgetting everything Frieda had taught me on that last road trip. Flying to the rescue again, a rescue that was both unwanted and unnecessary.

  Fern and Belle were steps ahead of me, aswirl in their own dance, and the s
teps were far more complex than anything I knew. They had twenty years on me, twenty years in which these two smart women honed their psychological craft.

  Fern was right. I didn’t know anything, but I knew I was getting the hell out of there.

  I zipped my case shut, sat at the desk and tapped the airline app, looking for the quickest flight home.

  Fern’s crutch creaked as she approached my room. She stopped in my doorway. “No need to be mad.”

  “Not mad.” I stared at my phone. The stupid app was malfunctioning, or else I was. I didn’t answer Fern. She’d set me straight, and I wasn’t willing to re-engage.

  After another few seconds, she grunted, turning around with the crutch. “Suit yourself.” She shambled away.

  I couldn’t get the app to work, and I knew if I kept at it, as upset and distracted as I was, I’d probably end up buying a ticket to Stockholm. So I gave up and went to bed, thrashing until the wee hours.

  The next morning, I awoke with a pounding head and a queasy stomach. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, which was strange. Normally I’d fix it, but for the first time in weeks, Fern was up before me. She was on the phone.

  She was laughing.

  In disbelief, I padded down the hall. She waved at me, said a cheery goodbye to whoever she’d been on the phone with, and hung up. Walking on the boot, she peg-legged over to the coffee pot and poured me a cup.

  Squinting at the light, I sat at the table and pulled the cup close. “Why are you so happy?”

  “Rita’s on her way in.”

  Didn’t matter to me. I was leaving. I took a sip of the coffee. It was strong.

  Fern dumped frozen hash browns into a crackling hot skillet. She was maneuvering around the kitchen just fine without her crutches, and didn’t seem affected by the booze she’d poured down her throat last night.

  “Rita’s coming in from Chicago. Should be here in three days. How about some bacon?”

  “No thanks.” I scratched at a dried spot of jelly on the table top.

  Fern went back to the fridge and took out a dozen eggs. Her robe, belted around her narrow waist, showed how much weight she’d lost in the past few weeks. She turned around, her eyes alight. “Omelet?”