by Jess Lourey
I smile weakly at Mildred, who’s clearly at the bottom of the pecking order. Maybe she can be my ally. Once we’re out of earshot of the rest, we can joke about my faux pas at bringing a store-bought dessert. Or, if I’m really lucky, about Catherine’s tone when she referred to it, as if I’d brought frosted dog shit rather than a packaged cake.
When Mildred leads me into the kitchen and opens her mouth, I realize it’ll be neither.
“Catherine told us you visited Dr. Krause today. How is the baby?”
“Fine.” It’s a bark more than a word.
Mildred cowers like I’ve struck her, and I immediately regret my harshness. Mildred the Mouse and her quivering whiskers. I set the cake down. Is it too soon to go home? “I’m sorry. I’m not used to everyone . . . caring so much about me. Do you have children?”
Mildred is hammocking one hand in the other, rocking them as if she’s cradling a tiny child. “Three. Three daughters.”
I try to think of the neighbors I’ve encountered since we moved in. “Do they still live at home?”
“Heavens, no. It’s just Teddy and me in the castle now.” She reaches out a hand to touch me but can’t quite bring herself to. Her expression is soft and moony, and it crosses my mind that I’m not the only one Dr. Krause is prescribing Valium for.
“It is lovely, isn’t it, to have the whole town as your family?” she asks, her hand floating between us.
Because I don’t want to be a risk, don’t want to be trouble, I smile. “It is lovely.”
Her face lights up. I’ve matched her tone perfectly. I let her lead me back to the living room.
The food is surprisingly good, the conversation light. I find myself with more hot-dish recipes than I could prepare in a month and a backlog of stories to tell Deck. Clan Brody nearly mangling his hand trying to fix a snowblower. Scaredy-mouse Mildred traveling to Saint Cloud and getting lost in the mall parking lot. Deck’s own mother trying a new beautician and emerging from the beauty parlor to discover her bouffant was the color of apricots when the sun hit it.
At some point, Saint Dorothy, who’s seated next to me at the table, begins stroking my hair again. I find I don’t mind. The conversation is smooth, no sharp edges, and the murmur of it makes me drowsy, these women cooing and warbling like soft-chested birds, pulling me into their nest, soothing me.
It’s as if they’ve drugged me.
The realization makes me start. “Paulie Aandeg is back in town,” I blurt.
By their exchanged glances, I can tell I’ve committed another faux pas, splashing lurid real life onto their smooth white canvas.
Dorothy stops stroking my hair. “We know, dear.”
Now that I’ve blundered in, I stubbornly want to see this horse over the line. “Do any of you remember when he disappeared?”
“We all do,” Catherine says icily. “It almost destroyed Lilydale.”
She’s staring at Dorothy as she says it. Why?
“Mrs. Lily,” I ask Dorothy, using her formal name because her face is so near mine, and I want to create distance. “Did you know Paulie or his mom?”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “We all knew Virginia Aandeg. She was an unfortunate woman.”
“But no mother deserves to lose her child,” Mildred says, glancing around for approval. “We’re so glad he’s back.”
“If it really is him,” Rue says mildly. She’s been quiet most of the night.
“Did Amory tell you something?” Catherine asks.
Rue’s birdie shoulders lift slightly. “It’s just good to be cautious.”
The four of them seem to take Rue’s words at face value, and Catherine changes the subject, returning to the cotton candy conversation from earlier. Church charity events they’re planning, the new Simplicity MuuMuu caftan pattern 7088, a fabric trip to Saint Cloud, how Johann Lily wouldn’t be fond of the too-short dress styles, a titter of laughter.
I want to be back inside the circle. “Johann Lily?” I ask.
They ignore me for a moment, burbling on to a discussion of last Sunday’s church service and the choir’s new song that was a hair too racy.
“Johann Lily?” I repeat. “Is he a relative of yours, Dorothy?”
It’s Mildred who responds, after rolling her glance off the suddenly stone-faced women seated around the table. “Johann and Minna founded the town. They immigrated here from Germany in the mid-1800s. I can never remember the year.”
“They also founded the Fathers and Mothers.” Catherine is fixed on me, expression as keen as a razor, as she says this. She expects a response, but I can’t for the life of me guess what it would be.
“They must have had a lot of children,” I quip, “to have named the organization that.”
The women at the table exchange another tight expression. And as if I’ve upset God, a bowling ball of thunder rumbles across the sky. I tug my cardigan closer. A storm tonight was unexpected.
“You know the Fathers and Mothers insignia?” Mildred asks. The desperation to avoid conflict rolls off her, rancid and salty smelling. She’s trying to get me to back off, but I’m not sure from what. I can’t find my footing with these women.
The thunder cracks again, followed by a yellow jolt of lightning.
In that electrified space, I hold up a V with one hand, like a peace sign, three middle fingers upside down with the other for the M. Mildred leans over and tucks my ring finger into the palm of my hand, so now it’s two Vs, one up and one down. She moves the up V over the top of the down V. My hands now perfectly re-create the emblem I spotted at the Washburne Avenue building.
There’s something graphic about making this symbol, the pink flesh of my fingers straining apart. I pull my hands back, reclaiming them. “I understand the M for Mothers,” I say. “But the V?”
Rain is thrashing the sky now, pounding on the roof and windows, drumming up the smell of earth and ozone. The lights flicker.
“Vater,” Catherine says, the word so natural coming out of her strong, angled face. “German for father. Mutter is mother. The V always goes on top.”
“Because Father knows best,” all the women murmur in unison, like a catechism. Dorothy is caressing a necklace. I realize it’s the white enameled locket she was wearing the first time I met her. It’s in the shape of a lily. Surely it contains a photograph of Stanley?
I lick my lips, suddenly aware I’m gripping the edge of my chair.
The next roar of thunder is so loud, so unexpected, it startles me to my feet, a yelp escaping my mouth. The hot dish that was so comforting sloshes in my stomach. For a moment, I fear I’m going to vomit on the table, in the middle of the dirty plates, right on the plastic flowers. I gulp air, and the nausea recedes.
“I’ll clean up,” I say, reaching shaking hands toward plates.
“I’ll help!” Mildred offers, and the other women follow suit. They bundle up silverware and cups and tureens so efficiently that suddenly it’s only Catherine and me around the dining room table. I feel her hot eyes on me, but I don’t meet them.
The thunder and rain argue with each other outside.
I stack some plates and am carrying them to the kitchen when I notice Catherine’s ceramic collectibles for the first time, really see them in a blinding flash of lightning. They’re scattered around the house, but here in the dining room, they have a dedicated hutch.
They’re all blackface caricatures.
Mammy and Pappy saltshakers, skin the darkest black, aprons the whitest white. Ashtrays that are only pitch-black heads, mouths open to swallow the detritus. A blond-haired, black-skinned baby eating a slice of watermelon twice his size, his face so gape-mouthed that he appears more fish than human. An Amos and Andy plate.
A mix of fascination and disgust threatens to eject the hot dish yet again.
“I’ve been collecting them for years. Everyone knows what to get me for my birthday,” Catherine says from immediately behind me. It’s all I can do to swallow a squeal of fear.<
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She steps around so we are face-to-face. I try to arrange my expression into something neutral, but judging by her flinty eyes, I am unsuccessful.
“Are you feeling all right?” She puts her hand on my arm, her palm so hot it burns through my cardigan.
“The pregnancy,” I say, hoping to distract her. “It takes its toll.”
“I remember those days.”
After a final glance over her shoulder, I tear my attention away from the wall that feels more like trophies than collectibles, turning my back to it, swearing never to return to this house even if it’s on fire. I set the plates back on the table and pretend to gather more silverware, my back again to Catherine. “You have children?”
“One. A boy. Quill.”
I pick up the plates again and turn, wondering why there are no photographs of her son displayed. “Does he live in Lilydale?”
Catherine’s face is open for a moment, revealing some long-held sorrow, but then it slams closed. “I’m afraid not. He’s a lifer. Never seemed to fit in anywhere else.”
“I see,” I say, assuming she’s referring to the military.
But I don’t see. Lilydale seems the perfect place for a person who doesn’t fit in anywhere else.
As long as you’re one of them.
CHAPTER 26
I have breakfast waiting for Deck when he tramps downstairs the next morning. I tell myself it isn’t because I want to be a good wife, isn’t because I must prove to him that I’m not a risk, isn’t because I’m now inexplicably frightened of the Mill Street women.
I’m lying to myself, of course.
I know because I have Deck’s breakfast waiting at the dinner table rather than the breakfast nook.
“Hi, honey!” I stand behind the scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and morning paper like a prize model on a game show.
Deck’s look of surprised delight washes away the stickiest of my concerns. He strides over and kisses me on the mouth. My pulse flutters. He’s growing his hair out, wearing it like his father’s, combed back with Brylcreem (a little dab’ll do ya!). A red scrap of tissue marks where he’s cut himself shaving. He’s wearing a suit, as his father demands, and he is so striking it makes my heart clutch.
“This food looks great!”
“I woke up early to make it,” I say, hoping he notices that I’ve also put on makeup and set my hair. “I wanted to do something special for you.”
He slides into his seat at the head of the table. “Thanks, doll.”
My appetite hasn’t returned, so I sit in the chair next to him and reach for my coffee. I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. He piles the eggs high on a corner of toast and tips them into his mouth, chewing loudly. Has his jaw always clicked like that?
“Quite a storm last night,” I say. “You weren’t home yet when I went to bed. Was it still rolling when you got back?”
He shrugs but doesn’t respond.
“I had some fun at the Mothers’ meeting,” I say, when the silence grows too heavy.
It’s a lie, but only a white lie.
His mouth is full, so he doesn’t answer right away. When he takes a breath to reach for the salt, he says, “I’m glad to hear it. Does that mean you’re gonna join them?”
I stare into the filmy brown surface of my mug. “I’m considering it. I learned about Johann Lily and his wife Minna last night.” I take a sip of my coffee, then add more whitener. “They founded Lilydale and the Fathers and Mothers. Did you know that?”
He picks up his knife and reaches for the jelly. Grape on heavily buttered toast is his favorite. “That sounds right.”
“I tried to find out more from the other women, but they didn’t seem to want to talk about Johann much. Or the history of the Fathers and Mothers. I think I’m going to research it.”
Deck’s face goes pale. He clutches at his throat.
I stand, knocking my coffee cup, splashing some into the saucer. “Are you okay?”
He reaches for his glass of milk and tips it to his mouth. There is a strained gurgle as the wad of food fights back before flushing down his throat. He sucks in air.
“Bit off more than I could chew,” he says, coughing and running his hand through his hair. I notice it’s shaking. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Joanie. The draft board is convening next week. We need to be on our best behavior. I don’t want to end up in Vietnam.”
I return to my chair, pouring coffee from the saucer back into the mug before refilling his milk. “But your dad’s the head of the draft board.”
He rests his hand on my wrist. “Yeah, but we need to be on the straight and narrow. I don’t wanna take any chances. Do you?”
“You know I don’t, Deck. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to move here.”
He rubs his face with a paper napkin. “Is it?”
I feel us slipping into a fight that’s opened like a sinkhole in the dining room. But I don’t know where it’s coming from. I went to the meeting last night. I made him breakfast. “You know it is.”
He’s staring at me, so serious. So handsome. “Joan, you moved because you got mugged and you were scared. Sometimes I don’t even know if you love me.”
I jump to my feet and hurry to him, wrapping my arms around him from behind. “You’re everything to me.”
As I kiss the back of his neck, I realize that statement is truer than I’m comfortable with. Without him, I’m lost in Lilydale.
Alone.
Unprotected.
He pats my hand, pulling me around to sit in his lap. His eyes are swollen. Maybe tears are almost brimming. Maybe it’s because he just choked.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Deck says. “When we talk about the war, I feel my whole life slipping away. Dad says we’re probably safe as long as we’re in Lilydale. You like it here, don’t you?”
“I’m getting used to it,” I say. I stand, or at least try to, but he yanks me back into his lap. He kisses me until I go soft and melty, then he pulls away too soon.
“I’m just a little homesick for the Cities,” I say, straightening my hair. It sounds like a reasonable explanation for all my moods as of late. “I need some Ursula time, maybe a visit to the paper.” I mean to say coffee with Benjamin, but it doesn’t come out that way. “You think that’d be okay?”
His face lights up, smile crinkles appearing at the edge of each eye. “Yeah, I think that’s a grand idea. We’ll figure out a day that works for you to take the car. Or better yet, maybe Ursula could visit you here.”
I nod. “Sure, maybe she could.”
He lets me stand this time, hugging me so my belly is pressed against his head.
That’s when the baby kicks.
For the first time.
I squeal. It is simultaneously the most terrifying and thrilling sensation. I thought I’d feel claustrophobic when I first felt the baby move, but instead I am six feet tall and bulletproof. “Deck! Did you feel that?”
“Was that the baby?” His eyes are dewy and wide.
“Yes!” I put his hand on my stomach and we both wait, but our son—Deck is positive we’re having a boy—isn’t interested in a repeat performance. Deck and I are grinning at each other like fools.
“Honey,” I say tentatively, “can you skip the meeting of the Fathers tonight? Have a date with me? I feel like we’ve hardly seen each other since we moved here.”
His hand is still resting on my belly, but his eyes slide away. I’m certain he’s going to say no. He surprises me. “How about a compromise? I’ll eat dinner with you tonight rather than with the guys, maybe watch a show. I’ll hit the meeting after that. Then we both get what we want. Sound good?” He’s smiling his best salesman smile.
“I guess.” It is better than nothing.
“How’s steak sound? I saw rib eyes on sale at Wally’s.”
“Yum,” I say, even though the thought of bloody beef sours my tender stomach.
He pulls away and tucks back into his now cold breakfast. “
Why don’t you pick up two steaks, then. And potatoes. You know I love your mashed potatoes.”
“Now?”
“Sure.” He shovels the rest of his food into his mouth, balls up the paper napkin, tosses it on his plate, and stands. “I’ll clean up breakfast even.”
“All right,” I say. I feel rushed, but I suppose I have nothing better to do. I grab my purse. I’m out the door before I realize we don’t have steak sauce, and I can’t remember which brand he prefers. I dash back inside to ask him, but he’s on the phone, his back to me, his shoulders so tight they’re braced like wings against his neck.
It must be important. I tiptoe back outside.
CHAPTER 27
“It’s so nice of you to meet with me, Mrs. Swanson,” I say as Paulie Aandeg’s kindergarten teacher sits across from me, smoothing her skirt for the thirtieth time. I’m thrilled to finally get a chance to speak with her. Deck told me the good news when I came back with the steak sauce. I was surprised to see him at home still, but I wasn’t going to complain. He also let me know that Ronald would let us use the insurance office break room to talk, though judging by how often Mrs. Swanson glances at the door, she wouldn’t be comfortable with this interview anywhere. For my part, I’m surprised Ronald’s allowed me to talk to her at all. It’s the first help I’ve gotten on the story since Dennis gave it to me.
Beautiful Becky, nervous as a nest of bees. She keeps her smile slapped on, though, her face only mildly lined, her blonde hair pulled back in a flattering upsweep.
“You must have been a young teacher,” I say, trying to put her at ease.
The comment has the opposite result. Her eyes fill with tears. “It was my first and last day of teaching. I tried to go back, after . . . after . . .”
“After Paulie disappeared?”
She nods. I wish I carried a handkerchief, because her nose is starting to run. “I couldn’t stay. I felt too terrible.”