Bloodline

by Jess Lourey

  I am in way over my head.

  CHAPTER 37

  “You’ll want to join us on June 1,” Catherine says. It’s a foregone conclusion.

  “What?” I ask.

  Regina left forty-five minutes ago. The table is cleared, the dishes are done, and the kitchen is clean. One of the women—I’m not sure which—has even thought to make little tinfoil packages of leftovers for everyone to take home, a delicious pocket of ham and potatoes. The guests are filing toward the door. The evening is almost over.

  Soon, I can lie down and close my eyes.

  But then the women turned on me. Almost as if they had it planned.

  “Join you for what?”

  “Mothers’ initiation,” Dorothy says, hand going to her bare neck before she catches herself. “I mentioned it while we were preparing dinner.”

  I am positive she did not. And I want to destroy that damn necklace now.

  “We hold it the first of every month,” Mildred says. “It’s been a while since we had anybody to initiate, though.” She looks to the other women for confirmation. They ignore her. I am struck by how very much like a high school clique these Mothers are. Mildred is the hanger-on, Dorothy the leader, Barbara the heart, sharp-faced Catherine the enforcer, and Rue the brain.

  “That’s a very kind offer,” I say. I don’t feel strong enough to turn them down.

  Clan Brody nearly crashes into our ladies’ circle. I put out Regina’s wine with dinner. He drank that like water and then pulled out a bottle of his own whiskey. The sour smell rolls off him in waves. It mixes with his sweat and creates something oversweet. I swallow a surge of bile.

  Clan holds his arms out toward me. The green grip of nausea tightens.

  “Thank you for having us,” he says, his words slurring.

  I think he meant to whisper in my ear, but he’s too loud.

  I step back. “You’re welcome.”

  The women are shifting, fluttering, birds again, not sure how to handle this interloper in their nest.

  Clan glances at my stomach, the gesture exaggerated, like his head is perched on ball bearings. “The town can’t wait for that little one.”

  Catherine grips his arm, her fingers sinking deep into his flesh. “Yes.” Her bright-chip eyes lock on mine. “We’re all so excited.”

  She starts pulling Clan toward the door. It seems she’ll get him home without a further scene, but at the last minute, he swivels and lurches back to plant himself in front of me. Where are the other men?

  “You look like your mother, you know,” he says, his voice blurry.

  I hold myself as still as stone. “My mother’s not from around here.”

  “A Mother,” Catherine says, her words like a punch, but whether directed at Clan or me, I cannot tell. “He said you look like a Mother, and we couldn’t agree more. That’s why we want you to join us on June 1. Make it official.”

  Clan is swaying, and all the women are smiling and nodding at me. I have the sudden sensation of falling. Light reflects off the glass of Mountain Red Mildred is clutching. The smell of the wine, though, the red liquid shimmering thick and salty like blood, pushes me over the edge. I do not even have time to excuse myself. I barely cross the threshold of the main-floor bathroom before I drop to my knees and vomit into the toilet.

  I throw up with such force that I worry I’ll eject the baby. I flush and vomit some more. When I’m completely empty, shuddering, I push myself to my feet and wipe down the toilet. I check for the necklace, which is taped safely behind the tank. Knowing it’s there grounds me. I won’t destroy it. I’ll use it like a talisman.

  I don’t have a toothbrush in this bathroom, so I can only rinse my mouth with water. I catch my expression in the mirror. I look like a haunted-house version of myself, too-short hair tufted around my ears.

  When I step out, everyone has left except for Ronald and Barbara. Barbara pats me on the shoulder. “Are you all right, honey?”

  I nod.

  “Don’t worry about Clan,” Ronald says. “He has a drinking problem. We’ll talk to him.”

  I nod again. Did they stay around to tell me that?

  When they leave, Deck brings me a Valium and a glass of water.

  I swallow them both and let him lead me to bed.

  I slip into sleep, no longer worried about getting my story.

  Now, I wonder if I’ll get out of this town alive.

  CHAPTER 38

  Deck lies heavily on his side of the mattress. There’s an ocean between us. I want to reach over and touch him. I want to return to the days when we would tease each other, and make love, and explore Minneapolis. I don’t know when precisely the world shifted so it’s him against me, but we’re no longer on the same team.

  The Valium, or maybe the pregnancy, or possibly the pressure of everything makes me cry. I think I am so quiet that Deck doesn’t hear me. But then, he bundles me into his arms.

  “You don’t like it here.”

  It’s not a question, and so I don’t give an answer.

  His voice is so low that I almost don’t hear it. “If I have to choose between your health and getting drafted, I’ll choose you every time,” he whispers. “We’re moving back to Minneapolis.”

  “Deck!” I can’t believe it. I sob even harder but for a different reason. I get to leave this town where they know my secrets. Where they don’t accept me. Where everyone is watching me.

  He starts kissing me, gently. The tenderness turns to passion, which morphs to naked, reckless need. Soon, I can’t get enough. I’m ripping off his pajamas, climbing on top of him. He’s never seen me like this. I’ve never seen myself like this. I ride him, pounding, until I climax. I fall onto his chest. He rolls me over and kisses me on the forehead. Then he turns away, his back to me.

  I’m embarrassed by my sexual aggressiveness. I’ve never finished before him. My hunger to feel him against me isn’t sated, either, so I roll onto my side, curving my body against his. In this position, I run my finger over his vaccination scar.

  I think of mine, just like it. How no matter what, we’re connected, me and Deck.

  In this relaxed state, a new thought inserts itself into my brain.

  “Maybe you’re Paulie,” I say drowsily.

  He laughs. He sounds very much awake. Has he been pretending to fall asleep? “It’ll take me a few weeks to close up business here before we can move back. I need to see which accounts I can transfer. I’ll have to land us an apartment, too.”

  It feels so good to be taken care of. I murmur something vague.

  “It’ll be best if we go to church this Sunday. Are you okay with that? Put on a good face before we ride off into the sunset?”

  I’m exhausted from weeks of paranoia all twisted up with moments of calm. I nod. He must feel the movement against his back, because he relaxes, then drifts off to sleep for real. I’m not far behind, floating in that warm forever between sleep and waking. So tranquilized am I that at first, I think the lullaby is coming from my dreams. I strain to hear it, trying to place it in my childhood.

  But the song is insistent, not soothing like I thought at first.

  In fact, it’s jarring, a hurdy-gurdy melody that finally yanks me awake. I sit up in bed. I look around. The moon is muffled behind clouds, too weak to pierce the deep ink of a small-town night. The bedroom window is open, the softest breeze tickling the curtain. I walk toward the shadowy opening.

  The jumpy melody is coming from outside.

  I see nothing out of place, but then a shadow moves in the alley.

  The same place I saw the man last night.

  The hurdy-gurdy lullaby is coming from him.

  My body goes numb and heavy, my limbs great sacks of sand, as if I’m trapped in a nightmare. I will not go outside at night on my own ever again. There’s no need. We’re moving soon.

  I return to bed and burrow again into Deck’s strong back.

  The jangly, terrifying music continues. I jam a pillow ov
er my head.

  It takes a long time, but I fall asleep. When dreams come again, they’re horror-laced visions of my baby cut from my belly by leering, deformed carnival clowns.

  CHAPTER 39

  Deck and I do not talk about moving the next morning. We both simply return to living our Lilydale lives. I trust he’ll take care of what he promised. Very soon, once he’s gotten all the loose ends tied up, we’ll be back in Minneapolis. If Ronald and Barbara want to see their grandchild, they can visit us.

  That we’ll be escaping soon gives me all that much more reason to nail down the Kris/Paulie story. Having a feature piece in my portfolio might help me get my reporting job back. With that in mind, after Deck leaves for work, I decide to stop by the Purple Saucer to check in on Kris.

  The phone rings on my way out.

  “Joan? It’s Benjamin.”

  I’m so fully immersed in Lilydale that it takes a moment to place him. The Star photographer. “Benjamin! How are you doing?”

  He groans. “Don’t tell me I did all this work for nothing. You remember calling me earlier this week?”

  I’m glad he can’t see my face. “Yeah, of course. What’d you find out about Lilydale?”

  “That it should be called Eden. The town’s perfect. Better than perfect. They have an outreach system, historically and currently, that makes sure every townie is taken care of. There’s fluff pieces about it, short and sweet bits here and there since the Great Depression. Speaking of, Lilydale is one of the only towns whose economy thrived during the ’20s. Some community fund that invested back into the town. The place is heaven on earth.”

  “Except for Paulie Aandeg,” I say, trying to hold back the dread his words give me. Because if Lilydale is as perfect as it seems, then the problem is me.

  “Except for Paulie Aandeg,” he agrees, “but that could’ve happened anywhere. And frankly, I’m relieved that the town isn’t flawless. I’d think it was a front for a cult.”

  “Thanks, Benjamin,” I say.

  “You okay, Joan? You don’t sound happy to discover you’re living in paradise.”

  “No, I know. I’m sorry. I had a late night last night. Of course I’m thrilled Lilydale is as perfect as it seems.” On the surface.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, you really sound like it. Do yourself a favor and don’t borrow trouble.”

  His words echo my mom’s. “Got it. Stay cool, Benny.”

  “See you on the flip side.”

  I think about his research on the walk to the Purple Saucer. I decide both things can be true: Lilydale can be a haven for many and still be threatening to me.

  Except hasn’t it treated me well, mostly?

  I think of Ursula, telling me I must stop telling stories.

  The tales need to go out, not in.

  I reach the motel. The car with Florida plates is gone. I knock on the door of unit 6. No answer. When I go to the front desk, I’m relieved to see Mr. Scholl isn’t working. The young clerk tells me to check down by the Crow River. He points me in the general direction, suggests a route.

  Reluctantly, I head out. I wanted to get this over with quickly.

  But the day is pretty, the town buzzing (for Lilydale) with people doing their business—disappearing into the barbershop or grocery store, buying fabric, visiting the library. For a moment, I worry that I’ll miss this quaintness when Deck and I move, but then I walk down another street and find the sidewalks deserted. The sudden emptiness is unsettling. In a few more blocks, the town has dwindled, the only visible structure a large, squat building that resembles an abandoned factory. According to what the clerk told me, the Crow River is another two hundred feet behind that.

  That’s where I find Kris sitting on a fallen tree.

  The river flows silver and placid in front of him, the land around so forested that it feels like we’re in an unspoiled wilderness rather than six blocks from the edge of town.

  “Hey,” I call. I don’t want to startle him.

  He doesn’t respond, so I say it louder. “Kris!”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I heard you.”

  I step closer, wading through the tall vegetation. “Mind if I join you?”

  “It’s a free log.”

  I drop down beside him. He’s wearing the same jeans and India print shirt as the night before, his face more lined in the bright sunlight than I’d noticed.

  “Don’t suppose you have that Siesta Key postcard on you?” I ask.

  He yanks it from his back pocket. I take it, running my fingers along the weathered edges. “Are you okay? Were you hurt last night?”

  “You mean when I was kicked out of your house? I’ve been treated worse.”

  I hand the postcard back to him. “Why were you flirting with me?”

  “Would you believe it’s because you’re cute?” He runs his fingers through his hair. I can see the start of a smile in the lines around his eyes.

  “No,” I say. But I like the warmth between us. I like everything now that I know Deck and I are leaving Lilydale. I was fine in Minneapolis, just fine. It’s small towns that are the problem, just like my mom said.

  He chuckles. “Maybe it’s that I like to live dangerously, then.”

  I want to ask him what that means, but I spot a flash of metal across the water. A wristwatch catching the sun?

  I stand, putting distance between Kris and me. Am I being watched again? My pulse is jittering unpleasantly. “I want to talk more about your time here. When you were Paulie.”

  He’s staring across the river at the same spot. “I’ve told you everything I remember.”

  “All the same,” I say, “I have a few more questions for you. For later.” When we’re in public, with witnesses. When I won’t get in trouble.

  “Then I guess I’ll catch you on the flip side,” he says.

  Same way Benjamin signed off only an hour ago.

  I back away. The flash has not repeated.

  I make my way to the library. I’m jittery, as if my behavior will decide whether Deck and I get to leave. Nobody seems to be openly staring at me today, though. I want to keep it that way. The inside of the library is approximately the size of a postage stamp. The only person inside is the librarian, who informs me that if I want to research the Aandeg case, the newspaper office houses the only records.

  I’m not surprised.

  I make my way to the Gazette. Dennis is out. When I ask his wife to see the archives, she tells me they’re still not accessible.

  “But you said they’d be fixed.”

  She shrugs. Guess I was wrong. “What’d you want to look up?”

  I don’t feel like tipping my hand (my hand that consists of one dinky card: the Paulie Aandeg story), so I keep it neutral, even though I’m growing frustrated at how impossible it is to get any new information about this case. “When I saw Dr. Krause, he mentioned that there was a Minnesota Health Department survey coming through. I thought maybe I would see if there was any history of them visiting here before.”

  She claps her hands. “That sounds like a wonderful article!”

  Is she a little too excited that I appear to be laying off the Paulie story?

  It doesn’t matter. I’m getting out of Lilydale either way.

  I come to this time with a yell.

  It’s fury (the Furies) fighting on my side, finally, and it raises me up, off the bathroom floor, my legs trembling only slightly this time. I hardly even need to lean on the sink. Once upright, I slowly, delicately make my way from the bathroom into the lemon-walled bedroom. Oh yes, I recognize this room.

  Finally, I remember where I am.

  The Furies redouble.

  I cock my ear. It’s early evening now. I hear them outside, know what they’re doing. I smell the meat they’re roasting, hear the brittle bubbles of their laughter popping in the humid night air and releasing blurts of joy.

  They’re demons.

  But I know exactly what to do.

  Have been plannin
g for this.

  I gingerly, haltingly return to the bathroom, remove my bloody, crusty clothes, and step into the shower. The water runs red, and then pink, and then clear. I express milk from both breasts, the relief exquisite. I towel off, and below the sink, I locate thick belted pads for my underpants and thinner ones for my brassiere.

  In the top drawer of the oak dresser, I discover loose, clean clothes. The basic comfort of standing, of cleaning and clothing my body, of having fresh pads to soak up my blood, is so overwhelming it nearly brings me to tears.

  But there isn’t time.

  Clarity is returning by the second. I remember the bottle of Geritol and the strawberry Pop-Tarts I hid in the rear of the closet, inside a musty box of children’s clothes. I rip the tinfoil and eat two so fast I hardly taste them. Screwing off the Geritol cap, I take two deep swallows. The salty, slimy metallic taste almost brings the Pop-Tarts back up, but I force my gut to accept it. I need the iron to make it through what I must do.

  The next package of Pop-Tarts I take to the bathroom, where I chew slowly, drinking water from the faucet between bites, reveling in the returning focus.

  Because it’s not just the Geritol and Pop-Tarts I’ve hidden.

  A smile (maybe a grimace, maybe the mask of war) stretches across my face.

  I have prepared for this.

  They are going to pay.

  I am Joan Harken. I will take back my baby.

  CHAPTER 40

  Knowing that I’ll be moving back to Minneapolis soon has me antsy. I can’t talk to Kris at the moment, not if someone is spying on us. It might jeopardize my escape. Regina doesn’t know anything about what happened in Lilydale in 1944. The microfiche machine is down. No one on Mill Street will tell me the truth. The two classmates who might have seen something, Quill Brody and Aramis Bauer, are out of my range of contact.

  I walk, mulling things over. No way can I wander into businesses and start asking the workers if they remember Paulie or Virginia Aandeg. When I think about my goodwill mission here just a week ago, I’m embarrassed at my naivete. I thought I was making friends. More likely, I was creating informants.