Bloodline

by Jess Lourey

  Paulie’s disappearance has rocked the tiny village.

  Led by Grover Tucker, Stearns County sheriff out of Saint Cloud, and with the help of local police officer Amory Bauer, an extensive, coordinated manhunt took place, but not one clue was uncovered. “We won’t stop looking until we’ve found the child,” Officer Bauer said.

  Lilydale businesses have closed today to help the search. Farmers have been urged to check their barns and cisterns, and housewives have even looked inside their furnaces for the missing child. Saint Cloud-based civilian air patrols have scoured the countryside, and men have walked hand-in-hand down the shallow Crow River on the edge of town, searching for any sign of Paulie.

  Two schoolgirls claim to have seen Paulie walking toward the river shortly after lunch. Mrs. Robert Cunningham, a local resident, said she saw a child walking along a ditch carrying a piece of paper around 1:00 or 1:30 p.m.

  Paulie’s mother, Mrs. Aandeg, says she thinks she knows what has happened to her child but cannot prove it. She refused to say any more to this reporter.

  The article includes a photo of the child, smiling shyly, hair cropped short, wearing his sailor suit. It twists my heart. The second piece was published five days later and features a photo of a much-younger Stanley and Dorothy Lily posed next to Ronald and Barbara Schmidt. Stanley is standing tall, squinting at the camera, and in that youthful incarnation, he looks like someone I used to know. Dorothy and Barbara are holding their hands over their eyes to shade them. Young Ronald is such a perfect replica of Deck that it haunts me.

  I read:

  Home of Missing Boy Destroyed in a Fire

  September 11, 1944

  Tragedy has again struck Lilydale, Minnesota, hitting the same family it devastated on September 5 with the disappearance of a child. The house of Mrs. Virginia Aandeg, whose son, Paulie, left school last Tuesday and has been missing ever since, burned to the ground late last night. There were no reported injuries in the fire. In fact, locals speculate Mrs. Aandeg may be on the run in reaction to the disappearance of her child and was not at home at the time of the fire.

  Paulie Aandeg was the subject of an area manhunt when he went missing on his first day of kindergarten. Stearns County Sheriff Grover Tucker was the lead on the investigation. According to Sheriff Tucker, “We’ve run down every tip and aren’t sure where to take the case. The entire Lilydale area has been scoured, bloodhounds and Civil Air Patrol brought in and witnesses questioned. It is troubling that the boy’s mother is nowhere to be found. We’ll have to assume the two disappearances are connected.”

  The town is reeling from the double tragedies. “While this is truly terrible, we’re coming together as a community,” said Mr. Ronald Schmidt, owner of Schmidt Insurance. Mr. Stanley Lily, local attorney, declared that “through a local organization, my wife and I are making sure there is always a home for Mrs. Aandeg in Lilydale if she returns, and we will never stop looking for Paulie.”

  Lilydale truly is a gem of a community, even in tragedy.

  For his part, Sheriff Tucker is not hopeful that Paulie Aandeg will be located. “While I believe we’ve hit a stone wall,” he said, “we know there is something off in the village of Lilydale. If anyone has something to report, they’re encouraged to call my office.”

  “Oh my god,” I say, falling back like a rag doll. “That unfortunate mother.”

  “I’d forgotten about the fire,” Dennis says quietly.

  I tap the microfiche screen with my fingernail. “Only two articles. Why didn’t the story get more coverage?”

  “It did in the Twin Cities’ papers, if I remember correctly,” he says. “I was overseas when the story broke, but everyone from Lilydale remembers it. The rumor was that Virginia Aandeg killed Paulie by accident, burned down her house when the police started sniffing too close, and then fled.”

  I think about what Miss Colivan said about Paulie last night, that his mother had abducted him. Small-town rumors appear to provide the most vicious form of the telephone game. “If he’s truly back, then that rumor is shot dead.”

  Dennis shrugs. “I never believed it. I didn’t know her well, but she seemed like a good enough sort. Drank a little too much, that’s all.”

  Does his gaze carry judgment? Does he know that I was out at Little John’s? “I wonder what happened to the boy after all.”

  Dennis threads his long, elegant fingers together. “With luck, we can ask him ourselves.”

  I still can’t believe that this plum story has landed in the Gazette’s lap. According to Dennis, a Father had run over from next door to say that Chief Bauer had called, saying he’d just met with a man claiming to be the original Paulie Aandeg. Dennis immediately came looking for me.

  It’s flattering.

  “With any luck,” I agree, nodding as I lean forward to reread the first article. Paulie had walked to school with his mother. She told his teacher not to let Paulie leave without her, but somehow, the teacher forgot, or Paulie wandered off, or he was kidnapped. The article isn’t clear.

  The only interesting nugget is the name of the local lead: Amory Bauer. Lilydale’s current police chief and the man Paulie Aandeg—Kris Jefferson—first came to upon his return. And then there’s Sheriff Tucker’s cryptic quote: “We know there is something off in the village of Lilydale.”

  I shake off the chills and return to the moment at hand.

  The boy in the sailor suit has returned.

  “So who’s going to write the article?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

  Dennis is so pale that his emotions are broadcast in neon. My question has delighted him. “I don’t suppose you want it?”

  I jump out of my seat and hug him. I can hold my own wrists behind his slender back. “Thank you thank you thank you! When do I get to interview Paulie?”

  Dennis waits until I release him to speak, his face scarlet. The Lilydale men must not get hugged nearly as much as the women. “Apparently, our Paulie is a hippie now. He runs on his own time clock and will ‘let us know’ when he’s ready for an interview.”

  I nod, biting my bottom lip in concentration. “Don’t suppose you know who the kindergarten teacher that day was.”

  “Yes, and I’m certain you’ve met her. Becky Swanson. She’s the secretary at your father-in-law’s insurance agency.”

  Blonde Becky, beautiful as a butterfly, she’d fall to the earth if she stopped smiling.

  Something about that thought drops a bullet of unease into the chamber, followed by another slug, slick and scary. I glance back at the article to confirm it.

  Paulie Aandeg disappeared on September 5.

  September 5 is my due date.

  The effort of reaching the bathroom costs me. I’m drenched in sweat, blood dripping down my thighs, my breasts vast, painful boulders. There are no identifying items in here, no names on prescriptions, no familiar shampoo. Only a bathtub, a sink, and a toilet. I use the sink to pull myself up, turn the faucet on, and gulp greedily at the cold water, drinking until my stomach threatens to revolt.

  I splash icy water on my face. It brings a moment of clarity.

  The faces, watching greedily as my baby came out, staring between my bloody legs as if I were a prize horse delivering their foal. I’d been drugged—a shot? two?—but the pain drew me out until the shot pulled me under, back and forth, drew me out, pulled me under, and whose faces were they? I see only grinning mouths.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  I am Joan Harken. I am a reporter. My baby is gone.

  I slide to the floor and lean against the sink pedestal. The water gurgles in my belly. The floor tile is blessedly cool. I want to lie on it, salve my feverish bones, but there isn’t time. I must find my baby.

  But my consciousness is being packed up and put away and I’m falling, down, down . . .

  CHAPTER 18

  Dennis gives me explicit instructions to sit tight on the article. It’s the weekend, so Mrs. Swanson will be with her family. Better to
interview her at work on her lunch break so as not to upset anyone. She hasn’t done anything wrong, Dennis assures me, but it can’t be a pleasant memory for her. Weekends are Chief Bauer’s busy time, so a Monday would work better for him, as well. As for Paulie, we’re at his whim as to when he wants to meet.

  I nod and agree to it, all the while thinking that surely there’s no harm in laying some groundwork. Dennis didn’t want to reveal where Paulie’s staying, but as far as I know there’s only one motel in town, and it’s the Purple Saucer. Deck and I drove past it our first day here. It’s a ten-minute walk from the newspaper, and the spring day is as pretty as a peach.

  When I reach the motel, I count eleven units, but the crowning glory is a large purple spaceship constructed on the roof as if it’s landed there. It’s straight out of Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, one of my mom’s favorite movies. There’s a thrill in seeing it resting up there, quirky and grand. The closer I get, I see the flying saucer is made out of plywood painted purple and shiny sheet metal, but I still like it.

  Of the eleven units, only three have cars parked in front, and all of those have Minnesota license plates. Would Paulie have been living in his home state all these years? I make my way to the glass-enclosed room marked OFFICE, the lip of the flying saucer shading it. There’s a man behind the counter, and he looks up with a smile when I enter.

  “What can I do you for, ma’am?”

  I planned for this on the walk over. “Hello”—I look at his nameplate—“Mr. Scholl. My name is Joan Harken.”

  Do his eyes grow shadowed behind his round glasses? If so, he quickly recovers. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you. I’m a new reporter at the Gazette, and Dennis Roth has assigned me the story of Paulie Aandeg’s return. You’ve heard the news?”

  He can’t blanket his expression quickly enough this time. He knows Paulie’s in town, which means he’s either friends with Chief Bauer or Paulie is staying here. I sit on my exultation, which isn’t easy.

  “There’s been word,” he says cautiously.

  My grin widens. “Wonderful. I’m here to interview Mr. Aandeg.”

  He removes his glasses and cleans them with a blue handkerchief he produces from his back pocket. When he pops his glasses back on his nose, his eyes are very focused.

  “Dennis sent you, you said?”

  “He assigned me the story.” I keep my smile bland. Mr. Scholl can make of that what he will.

  He studies me for another beat. “Well, I’m afraid Mr. Aandeg left early this morning.”

  Disappointment flattens my mood. I’ve been excited to meet him. “Checked out?”

  “No. Cleaning lady says his things are still there. He could be looking for work.”

  Aha! “Thank you, Mr. Scholl. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Have a nice day,” I tell him, turning toward the door. I’ve already made up my mind to come back tomorrow, am already spinning the questions I’ll ask him. Poor Puzzling Paulie, a mystery of a man. Mr. Scholl’s comment stops me dead in my shoes.

  “You want me to tell him you’ve dropped by, Mrs. Schmidt?”

  My hand rests on the cool door handle. The patch of warm sunshine is just outside, beyond the black shade of the flying saucer, and I suddenly, desperately want to feel it on my skin. “Harken,” I say.

  “Excuse me?”

  I start to turn, to face him, but don’t think I can stand it if he’s smiling.

  “Nothing,” I call over my shoulder. “No need to tell him a thing. I’ll stop back.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Sunday morning dawns sticky, the air slow and sullen.

  “Weatherman says it’s going to be a hot one,” Deck murmurs in my ear, his voice drowsy. I’m surprised he’s holding me, but then the pressure against my lower back tells me why. I turn and kiss him, not open-mouthed because we’ve just woken up, but still inviting.

  Morning lovemaking is my preference. My mind isn’t alert yet, so it’s easy. Deck props himself up just above me, out of deference to the baby. If I glanced down, I could see the pouch, a swelling where before there was only flat, but I don’t look. I grip tight to Deck and follow him into that place where there’s no color or sound, just the two of us rocking each other.

  He rolls off before I’ve climaxed. Ursula says it’s like that sometimes. I’ve had to take her word for it because Deck’s only the second man I’ve been with. I told him he was the first. Hearing it made him happy.

  He slides out of bed and pads straight into our bathroom, so I head to the one downstairs to clean up. When I return, he’s making the bed.

  “That was a good way to wake up,” I say shyly, staring at my bare feet.

  He strides over and kisses the top of my head. “The best.”

  “Do you want to have a cup of Sanka with me? In the nook?”

  His face twists. “I wish I could, baby, but I have to work today.”

  “It’s Sunday!”

  “I know. This first month is vital, Joanie. I’m playing catch-up with the other agents. I need to show the locals I’m worth their money. That means working harder.”

  Slow Henry appears and rubs against my leg, purring loudly. His glossy fur is so comforting to the touch, but I don’t want to pet him, not when I’m frustrated. Deck wasn’t home all yesterday. I went to bed without him, didn’t even have a chance to tell him about the Paulie Aandeg story.

  Deck notices my expression. “Don’t be mad, Joanie. I’ll be back for dinner. We can watch television just like nights back in Minneapolis. All right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Joan, you’re still pouting.”

  He’s right, so there’s no point in replying.

  “You should make some friends,” he says, his voice suddenly hard, the playfulness gone. “I can’t be your only social life here.”

  But you are, I want to protest, and you should be because it’s your fault I’m here. But then I think of my complicity in the move, and Regina, and her kindness. “I did meet a woman about our age.” I don’t tell him that she works at the bar or that she’s from Canada in case he takes her for a hippie.

  “Wonderful, baby! You should have lunch with her.”

  I have nothing on my calendar other than stopping back by the Purple Saucer Motel.

  “I think I will.”

  I’m timid walking into Little John’s. It’s foolish how I hold the wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches in front of me, all but yelling I’m not here to drink. Thankfully, Regina is working, and even better, she seems pleased to see me.

  “Tell me those are bologna,” she says when I seat myself at the bar. The dim room contains more people than I’d expected at noon on a Sunday.

  “Close,” I say, nudging one toward her. “Fried braunschweiger. Do you like it?”

  “Is that the liver sausage stuff?”

  “Pretty similar,” I say. “I put pickles on it, too, but you can peel those off.”

  “Far out!” She unwraps the sandwich. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A Tab?” I say, louder than required.

  She smiles, holding the triangle of sandwich with one hand and turning a glass right-side up with the other. “Heard it’s warm out there,” she says.

  It is. The middle of May, and it’s already a simmering day begging for rain. “What time do you come to work?”

  She’s chewing. She hands me my soda, swallows her bite. “We open at ten a.m. for our shot-and-a-beer regulars. I’m here sometime before then.”

  I glance around the bar. Eight people, all men, none of them sitting together, all of them with a sweating drink resting in front of them. The radio is a background hum, describing a world apart from Lilydale. “Is this a typical Sunday crowd?”

  She shrugs. “I suppose. Hey, you smell really good. What is that?”

  “Shalimar,” I say, offering my wrist. She sniffs and smiles, but then, what? A chasm lies between us. We don’t know each o
ther, but we want to. At least, I hope she wants to. “Where were you and your boyfriend headed when you came through here?”

  She smiles, her overbite and dimples creating an immediate welcome. Elbows on the bar, she finishes her sandwich, filling me in. They hadn’t had a destination in mind. Possibly California. Maybe New York. There’d been talk of a big folk festival in one or the other. Mostly she wanted to cut loose from her parents, who didn’t approve of her lifestyle or her boyfriend.

  “They were right on that last one,” she says with a wink. “How about you? What brings you to Lilydale?”

  I surprise myself with the truth. “A low point.”

  She howls with laughter, sees I’m serious, and waits for more.

  “My boyfriend grew up here. He’d been asking me to move back with him for a while. Then all in one week I lost a dream job I never stood a chance of getting, Dr. King was assassinated, and I was mugged at knifepoint.” I hadn’t meant to tell anyone but Ursula about the mugging, but something about Regina puts me at ease. “I was desperate to run away. By the time I calmed down, I’d already promised Deck I’d move.”

  An old man makes his way to the bar, raises a finger. Regina pulls him a beer, glancing back at me the whole time.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asks when she returns. “Something wild?”

  A delicious tickle travels up my spine. “Sure.”

  She scans the room. The closest customer is ten feet away. She turns up the radio anyhow, and then leans across the bar. “This place is weird.”

  I raise my eyebrows, the thrill rippling through me. “In what way?”

  “Everyone is just so . . . nice.”

  I’m waiting for more. When it doesn’t come, I burst out in laughter.

  She scowls, and I rush to apologize. “I’m so sorry!” I tell her. “I know what you mean. I was just expecting something a bit darker.”

  She wipes the bar with a dirty rag. “It’s weird, is all. Everyone has a please and a thank-you, asks how you’re doing. Do you know some grim-faced lady stopped by my apartment when I first moved in to ask me if I needed any clothes or food?”