Bloodline

by Jess Lourey

  Little John’s is ahead on the corner. It’s late afternoon, another hour before everyone gets off work.

  Anyone inside the bar is either unemployed or trouble.

  The door swings open, and Kris stumbles out.

  Or both.

  A woman follows him. I don’t recognize her, but they’re so comfortable with one another that I wonder if they came to town together. She tumbles into him, laughing before kissing him passionately.

  I duck into the nearest alleyway until Kris and the woman pass, weaving in the general direction of the Purple Saucer. Once they’re out of sight, I have a choice. I can go home, or I can simply walk into Little John’s and ask Regina straight up what, if anything, she’s told Ronald.

  It would be the responsible thing to do.

  But I can’t bring myself to step through the door. I don’t think I could bear discovering I’m alone in Lilydale, as alone as I feel. Instead, I hurry toward the phone booth and dial the number to the Star. I’m told Benjamin is on assignment and that it’s not known when he will return.

  I ask to leave a message.

  When that’s done, there’s nothing for me to do but go home and prepare Deck’s supper.

  CHAPTER 48

  When I wake up the next morning, I see Deck’s already left for work. I don’t even know what time he got in last night.

  Late.

  It occurs to me that I can pack a bag and hitchhike to Minneapolis, beg Ursula to take me in, convince her of the danger in Lilydale, that we must get the police involved. But I’m safe here as long as I’m pregnant. This fact buys me time to help Angel, if such a thing is still possible, to plan, to think of a way to escape this town that guarantees they can never hurt me or my baby or force us to move back here.

  Deck hasn’t remarked on my anxiety. He has been working late nights. He’s been distant. I think I saw him flirting with Miss Colivan, the fourth-grade teacher, at church. He may not have initiated it, but he didn’t seem to mind when she laughed at something he said—he’s never been funny—and snaked her arm around his waist. It saddens me, but it also makes planning my escape that much easier.

  I jump when the phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Joan Harken, please.”

  “This is she.” The person on the other end of the line sounds so civilized and normal. I want to scream at them, Save me! Get me out of this crazy village. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “Samantha Beven. From the Minnesota Health Department. I’m returning your call.”

  About what? I almost say.

  But then I remember. I called them a lifetime ago when I thought the world had rules and that I could write an article about blood collection and censuses.

  “Thank you for calling me back,” I say, thinking quickly. “I’m a reporter for the Lilydale Gazette. I wanted to find out more about the blood survey you’re bringing to our town. What you’re hoping to find.”

  “What we were hoping to find was one of the purest Germanic bloodlines in all of Minnesota. Unfortunately, Lilydale refused us access.”

  “They can do that?” But of course they can. They can do anything they want. And boy, would they want to avoid a blood collection, if my theory is right, if Ronald and Stanley—and probably Clan the Brody Bear, Amory Mountain, and Browline Schramel, too—have a decades-long history of raping local women, exacting the price of staying “safe” in Lilydale.

  “A city council does have the right to turn away our blood research, yes.”

  “I understand.” The phone clicks. Has she hung up on me? “Hello?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “It sounded like you ended the call.”

  “I heard it, too.”

  I feel a dozen eyes on me, or should I say ears? But curiosity—no, terror—is pushing me to get answers. I need a logical reason why Deck, Kris, and I all have the same scar on our arms. “I have another question, and it’s an odd one. You might not even be the person to ask.”

  “Try me.”

  “I have a scar on my upper left arm.”

  “Vaccination scar?”

  “Yep, smallpox. But here’s the thing. It’s in the shape of a figure eight almost.”

  “That happens sometimes.” She sounds polite but bored. “Sometimes certain bloodlines will have a similar adverse reaction to a vaccination. It’s uncommon but not unheard of. Most of the time, though, it’s a bad batch creating a specific reaction.”

  Exactly what Dr. Krause mentioned during my first visit with him.

  “Could one batch be shipped to different states?”

  “It’s possible.”

  I’m about to ask my last question when something clicks into place. It wouldn’t have to be possible. Kris said his first memory after Lilydale was in San Diego, the city I was living in when I stole the pearl necklace for my mom. Both he and I could have easily gotten vaccinated there from the same bad lot. Deck having a similar reaction to another lot four years later was just one of those things. But was it coincidence that Kris and I were living in the same city at the same time when we were kids, and now we’re both in Lilydale?

  “Is that it?” Her voice has gone from bored to annoyed.

  “One more thing.” I’m thinking about the locket taped to the back of my toilet, the one containing ancestral dirt. “You mentioned the German bloodline here in Lilydale. Do you know anything about Johann and Minna Lily?”

  I hear her exhale through her nose. “Nothing other than that they’re Lilydale’s founders and that Lilydale is the state’s epicenter of German immigration. They really kept the marriages insular there. One of the shallowest gene pools in the country. The Stearns County Historical Society could tell you more. Are you familiar with them? They meet in Saint Cloud. I’m an honorary member but have never attended a meeting.”

  I reach for the paper and pen next to the phone. “Do you have their number?”

  I’m tempted to leave the house and walk to the phone booth to call the historical society. If I do that, though, I’m admitting that I think my phone is tapped, and that seems like a straight train to Crazy Town.

  Browline Schramel and Mildred the Mouse live inside a telephone, one that Browline Schramel is always tinkering with.

  I shake my head to loosen the story. I dial. When a woman answers, I give her the spiel about being with the Lilydale Gazette and writing an article about the town.

  “Oh!” she says. “Lilydale is such a lovely village. I’ve driven through it many times. It has the perfect small-town feel. You’re so lucky that you get to live there!”

  “Thank you,” I say through clenched teeth. “What can you tell me about the town?”

  “It was founded in 1857, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

  “By Michael Lily?” I’m testing her.

  “No, dear, it was founded by Johann and Minna Lily. There’s quite an interesting story with those two. I’m going to run to the archives right now to make sure I have it right. Do you have a moment?”

  “Yes.”

  I hear the click again. I tell myself it’s only her setting down the phone, but my skin is crawling with tiny insects. I wait two minutes. Then three. At four, I am sure she’s never coming back. I’m about to hang up when I hear another click.

  “Hello?” The voice is unfamiliar.

  “Hello,” I say. “Where’s the woman I was speaking with earlier?”

  “She had to take another call. Personal business. She told me you wanted to learn about the Lily family. Is there something I can answer for you?” The chilliness in her voice is unmistakable.

  “The woman I was speaking with said there’s an interesting story about them. Do you know what that was?”

  “Other than the fact that they came to a land they didn’t know and founded one of the most stable, kindest communities in Minnesota? I think that’s incredibly interesting.”

  “Yes,” I say, the earth opening beneath me, swallowing me whole. They’ve go
tten to the other woman, the first one I was speaking with. Their reach is wide. How wide? “I agree. It’s a wonderful town. Thank you for your time.”

  “Will that be all?”

  “Yes. Thank you again.” I hang up. I sit at my typewriter and begin slamming the keys. I don’t even pretend it will be an article anymore. I just want to see the black words on white paper.

  Lilydale, Minnesota, a town of 1,476 people, is ruled by a small cadre of men and women who call themselves the Fathers and Mothers. They look so normal and act so kind, these Fathers and Mothers, but they’re not. They rape women and kill the children, and they want my baby. I think they brought me here to—

  The phone bleats, making me shriek. I yank the paper out of the typewriter and cram it into my pocket before I answer, my heart still beating so fast it’s dizzying.

  “Hello?” My voice quavers. Have they seen me typing? Do they know I know?

  “Joan?”

  My relief is so strong that I whimper. “Benjamin. Can I call you back in five minutes?”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, I just need to . . . I need to call you back.”

  I hang up and race out of the house, but not before I burn what I typed, letting the charred flakes of paper drift into the sink.

  CHAPTER 49

  Catherine meets me at the end of my walkway. It must be her shift to chaperone me.

  “Joan! What a beautiful day. Are you off to see Deck? I’m bringing Clan his lunch. We can walk together.”

  I rub the back of my neck. It’s so sensitive that it feels covered in blisters. Or eyes.

  “How wonderful,” I say, smiling as if my life depends on it, because it might. “I’m sure they’ll be happy about us dropping by.”

  I pretend I can’t see her watching me from the corner of her eyes.

  Risk. Uncooperative.

  That’s what she thinks of me, what they all think of me.

  But as long as I follow the rules, I—the host of a precious Mill Street baby that they wouldn’t have to hide for once—will be allowed some freedom of movement. Not much, but some. Once the child is born, though, unless they believe I’m one of them, I have no doubt I’ll suffer the same fate as Virginia Aandeg and the mugger who was so careless as to let me see him.

  I have no intention of staying around long enough to test my theory.

  I know that hatchet-faced Catherine is about to ask me about my health and then the weather—it’s part of their script, to stay at the surface—so I answer before she can speak.

  “I have been sleeping so well lately, despite the unrelenting heat. I’ve never felt better. This summer weather sure agrees with my pregnancy.”

  Does her smile slip?

  “How lovely,” she says.

  We’re both pretending we’re normal. I’m going to pretend better, even though my chance to speak with Benjamin is slipping away. I ask her about church, fertilizing roses, and baking casseroles, anything to keep her from asking me questions. And when we’re only a block from Schmidt Insurance, I act as if I’ve just realized something.

  “Oh my gosh! I didn’t take out meat to thaw for supper before we left. I’m sorry, but I better run to the grocery store or Deck won’t have a thing to eat tonight.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Catherine says, too quickly.

  “No reason both husbands should be lonely this lunch,” I say, smiling. I touch her arm. “Maybe you and Clan can join us for dinner? I can shop with the two of you in mind.”

  There is no misreading the anger on her tight face. “We’re dining with the Schramels. Maybe another evening?”

  “Maybe.” We face off at the corner, neither of us wanting to be the first to walk away. I win, my brittle smile stronger than hers. I burn my eyes into her straight back until she steps into Schmidt Insurance. Then I walk quickly in the other direction and close myself in the phone booth. I retrieve Benjamin’s phone number and a coin out of my purse. I drop the coin into the slot and dial.

  “Joan! What took you so long? I have to go out on a job.”

  “Benjamin,” I say, breathless. “Thank god you’re still there. Tell me what you found.”

  “Okay, but I only have a minute. Joan, I’m worried about you. Do you have a doctor there you can talk to?”

  Not Benjamin, too. The tears are instant, but I keep my voice level. “Did you find anything else?”

  “I didn’t uncover anything connecting Paulie and Angel, if that’s what you’re wondering. Could Angel just be part of a migrant family? They move their children in and out of schools.”

  I remember Angel’s mother sobbing. “No, that’s not it. You didn’t find any other children missing from Lilydale over the years?”

  “None. Joan—”

  I cut in before he can finish. “I have one more favor. Can you find out anything suspicious about Johann and Minna Lily? They founded the town in 1857.”

  Benjamin’s tone—slow, enunciating each word—suggests he’s at the end of his rope. “Why don’t you come to Minneapolis and look it up yourself?”

  I’ve been peering across the street our entire phone conversation. Two men are staring back at me from the front window of the Fathers and Mothers building, not even bothering to hide their surveillance. “It’s complicated. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “Fine,” he says, sighing. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’m busy, so it might not be right away.”

  “Thanks, Benjamin. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me twenty. You’re lucky I’m a sucker for beautiful women.”

  The men step back from the window, as if they know our conversation is over. I hang up. I feel a trembling, a cry coming. I think it’s rising in me, but I soon realize it’s fire trucks. They scream through town, racing south.

  Toward Angel Gomez’s house.

  CHAPTER 50

  I race into the Gazette offices, startling Dennis.

  “I need your keys!” Deck won’t give me ours. I know this without being told. If I allow Dennis too long to think about it or, even worse, time to seek permission from the Fathers, I won’t get his, either.

  I lunge at him, grasping for the key chain that he’s pulling out of his front right pocket, his social conditioning moving faster than his brain. His jaw drops when I rip them away.

  “I’m sorry!” I yell.

  I dash out to the back door and slide into Dennis’s Coronet. I start it up, slam it in reverse, and peel out of the alleyway. The fire trucks are out of sight, but I can still hear them. I speed to catch up.

  Of course. Once they kill the boy, they murder the mother and burn any evidence. I must save Mariela. And her children.

  The ones who are left.

  Except the trucks don’t stop south of town. They veer east and keep driving straight past the dark trees, pop through the skin of Lilydale and into the real world. Soon, I can smell rich black ash burning and see soot rising in the air miles ahead. I drive toward the fire, all the way to Cold Spring. A barn is blazing on the edge of town. Fire trucks from the nearest municipalities are there fighting the roaring flames.

  It has nothing to do with Lilydale.

  I keep driving.

  I could drive forever, I think. I could motor all the way to Siesta Key and never look back. I can raise this baby on my own. I’ll change my name. They’ll never be able to find me.

  Except women like me don’t do that. We don’t start new lives. And I can’t leave, not if there’s a chance Angel is still alive.

  Saint Cloud is ten miles ahead, Lilydale twenty miles behind. I keep driving all the way to Grover Tucker’s house, telling myself I’m buying time until I can figure out a plan. I find him in his lush backyard sitting in the shade, sipping lemonade.

  “You got my message,” he says without getting up. “I wasn’t sure if your friend would pass it on.”

  I step closer. I want to see his face. The shade is too dark, though. “What message?” />
  “I called Saturday morning. Said I had news for you.”

  I glanced down at the sapphire on my ring finger. Saturday was the morning Deck proposed, just after the phone rang. That bastard is their puppet. “You heard about Angel Gomez disappearing?”

  “I did, but that wasn’t what I called about.” He stands slowly. “Let’s step into the house.”

  I follow him into his spotless kitchen, the light blue of the cabinets picking up the checkered pattern of the linoleum. He has lace curtains. I wonder if he was ever married.

  There’s a pile of papers on the counter. I recognize the picture of Kris I left with him on top. Below that is a manila folder. He hands the stack of papers to me, his face lined and sorrowful, his eyes cloudy.

  “He was telling you the truth about his name. It really is Kris Jefferson. Maybe where he’d been, too. The rest is a lie. His military papers and rap sheet are in the envelope. He’s two years too old to be Paulie.”

  My throat is sticky. “Rap sheet?”

  “Nothing too dark. Lifted some cars. Wrote a few bad checks. He’s a grifter and a drifter, but I don’t think dangerous.”

  I know the answer to the question, more or less, but I ask anyway. “How’d he end up in Lilydale?”

  Grover turns his hands palms up. “Who knows? He might of told you the truth of that, at least part of it. He heard about the missing boy. Had nothing better to do, so came north to see what he could make of it.”

  That’s one possibility. There’s another one, though. If the Mill Street families hired a man to mug me so I’d be scared enough to move here, is it too much of a stretch to imagine they’d also hired a drifter to distract me until I gave birth, to flirt and give me a chance to play a reporter? I lean against the counter. I hate to think of myself as so vain, so easily diverted. “Don’t suppose you know who Paulie Aandeg’s father was?”

  Grover shakes his head. “I’m trying to track down his birth certificate, but that’s turning out to be a lot more work than it should be. I have one last favor to call in, but the outcome doesn’t look good.”