by Mary Logue
“Plenty warm. I suppose you’re getting a little warm weather up there, too?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s summer, you know. Hot and muggy. But a nice breeze today. That makes a difference.” Her voice ran down and then she said, “There was a strange letter in the paper today. Andy figured it was about the Schuler murders. Something about finding out the truth. Had the date—July seventh, 1952. Were you working for the sheriff when that happened?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember it well.” The Schuler murders—that sure came out of the dark to ambush him. He tried as hard as he could never to think of that time in his life. “I was low man on the totem pole in those days. Didn’t have much to do with it.”
“Not much else going on.” Marie gave an embarrassed cluck. “Nice to hear from you, Earl.”
“Well, thanks, Marie. Say hi to the kids and tell Andy I called.”
“I’ll do that, Earl. You try again.”
He hated this sham and decided to speak his mind. “Do you really think I should bother?”
“Yeah, I do. I think you should. Who knows? Glad you called. ’Bye now.”
When he hung up the phone, he stared down at his hands.
He remembered driving to the Schulers’ farm to return the saw he had borrowed from Otto.
He remembered what he had found there.
This was another reason he didn’t want to go back to Pepin County.
He remembered the fingers. He would never forget the pile of fingers.
Arlene Rendquist had been born on the Fourth of July. Fifty years ago this day. Named after her little cousin, who had died a few days later: Arlette. Her mother had been brokenhearted, wanting the two cousins to grow up together. Bertha, her sister and Arlette’s mother, had been killed too. Terrible tragedy, her mother had always said. Every year her mother would be reminded of it on Arlene’s birthday.
Arlene wondered what her husband, Larry, would get her for her birthday. She wondered if he had even remembered. He hadn’t mentioned a thing, and she decided she wasn’t going to bring it up.
Larry worked for the railroad. It was a good, steady job, but dirty. He was sleeping in today, since it was his day off. He had gone out and tied one on with the boys last night. She didn’t mind so long as he didn’t come home all soused up and wake her up, hoping to party a little more. She was getting too old for that kind of behavior. He was too. He was more apt to sit quietly at home, nursing a six-pack these days, than go out with his buddies.
Arlene finished folding the laundry and decided she had done enough work around the house to have earned the right to a little rest and another cup of coffee. She walked out to the mailbox to pick up the paper. Even though it was a holiday, the Durand Daily would be there.
The day was perfect. Eighty degrees. Fluffy clouds in the sky. She wondered if her dad would stop by today. He lived a half mile down the road, and even though he was eighty, he was still farming. He had over five hundred acres of land. Larry said that when her father died, they could sell his land and retire to Florida. But Arlene knew that her dad might well live to be a hundred. She wouldn’t put it past him to outlive them all. Dad was made of tough stuff.
She pulled the newspaper out of the box and walked up the driveway. Dad would probably show up about suppertime, wondering what they were eating for the Fourth. She thought she’d make hamburgers. No big deal. Taste as good as anything.
When she got into the kitchen, she could smell the coffee—a burnt odor that she didn’t find altogether unpleasant. Last cup in the bottom of the coffeemaker. She poured it into her favorite mug, the one labeled, SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED, that Larry had given her for Christmas a few years ago. She had gotten such a charge out of it.
She went out and sat on the front steps. Such a day as this should be enjoyed. Reading the paper, she started with the first page and read it front to back. Even the ads. You never knew what you might find for sale. There was a letter to the editor that caught her eye because Harold Peabody had written a disclaimer above it, indicating that he didn’t usually print a letter without a signed name, but he was making an exception. She had to read the letter twice, but she could see why Harold had published it. It gave her the shivers. She wondered if her dad had seen it yet.
It had to be about the Schuler murders. The date was right. They never did know the truth about what happened. Sometimes her mom would talk about the incident, saying that she missed her sister Bertha every day of her life. “She was a good wife and a good mother and a good sister and she could bake a peach pie like you wouldn’t believe.” High praise from her mother.
One time, after her mother had died, and Arlene and her father had gone out to look at the old homestead, Arlene brought up the murders with her father. He wouldn’t talk about what had happened. All he’d say was that it was a sad story that didn’t bear repeating.
Her parents had inherited the Schuler farm. Otto Schuler had had no family in the area. All his relatives were still in Germany and couldn’t be found. Her dad farmed the land, but he didn’t want to rent out the house. He did little to keep it in repair, but he kept a roof on it. Her dad claimed no one would want to live in it after what had occurred there. Finally, he rented it to the Danielses not long ago.
When Arlene was little, she would sneak over and climb into the house through a broken window. The house was kinda spooky. There had been brown stains on the kitchen floor that she imagined came from the blood of the murdered children—her five cousins. She would have had a different life had they lived. She would have been part of a big family. As it was she was raised all by herself.
Hearing a noise, she lifted her head to see her father’s truck come barreling down the road, raising a cloud of dust behind it. He pulled into the driveway and drove right up to where she was sitting.
“All through working for the day?” he asked her.
“Just taking a break. You want a cup of coffee?”
“Naw, just thought I’d check and see if I was welcome for supper.”
“You know you always are, Dad. Come by around six.” She shook the paper at him. “You see the Durand Daily yet?”
“No, I don’t bother with that paper. Nothing in it I want to know about.”
“There’s a letter that I think might be referring to the Schuler murders.”
He stared at her.
“Says that they want to find out the truth about what happened.”
He shook his head. “They’re dead and gone. What good’s the truth now? It’s too late.”
Opening the door to the basement, he smelled the scent of darkness. He found it a comfort, allowing him to feel safe and away from the world. He stepped down the first step and closed the door behind him. This was another of his holy places—the basement. His wife never went down into it, hating the cold and damp. They kept the freezer out in the garage and she stored all her canned goods in the pantry, so she had no reason to go down there.
It wasn’t even a full basement. The old farmhouse had been built in pieces, and the basement was only under half the house. It was built of old limestone and seeped water most of the summer, but he liked it down there. His father had built a workshop in the room right under the stairs and now it was his. He still kept all his father’s tools in their proper places. A diagram drawn in pencil on the wood backboard made it easy, outlining each tool hanging on its nail.
Above the tools hung his mother’s graduation picture. In it she wasn’t smiling; she was watching. He knew she finally understood what he was doing. Even she had to admit the time had come.
Upstairs, his wife was stretched out on the couch, watching one of her soap operas. He couldn’t tell one from the other, even though she would talk about them as if the people lived just down the road and he saw them at church every Sunday. They filled her life and he was glad of it. She needed something.
He had a lemon, a jug of water, and a little vial. He had brought down a good cutting knife from the kitchen. Slicing the lemon into quarters
, he had decided, would be the way to go, as a quarter was the best size for squeezing the fruit. Plus, four was a good solid number. He had always liked it. It might be his favorite number. Like an animal that moved on four legs, it seemed alive and solid.
He cut and squeezed until he had gotten all the juice he could out of the lemon. Not as much juice as he had hoped, but it would do. He added a cup of water, then dumped the contents of the vial into the jug. After screwing the top on tight, he shook the jar and the dark granules dissolved. Then he poured as much of the liquid as he could fit into a silver flask, the old drinking flask of his father’s.
The next step would be taken tonight. Even though he would be the one to carry it out, he could not control what would happen. Four times seven was twenty-eight. It was always twenty-eight. You counted the numbers, you followed the steps.
The letter had been in the paper today. Now everyone would know what this was about; everyone would be thinking about it. The collective energy of the county would be on the old Schuler murders. This next step would start the talking. Everyone would be talking about it, and the truth, like the juice from the pulp of a fruit, would squeeze out.
It could be held inside its skin no longer.
The truth could save them all. If it would come in time.
The last step. He took out his special box, the one he had made when his mother died, and he opened the lid. A pile of delicate bones like links on an ivory chain were arranged inside. Gently he lifted out the smallest bone—Arlette’s, probably—and put it next to the jar. He was ready.
CHAPTER 9
Originally, Claire had asked Rich to come over and spend the day. She had promised to make everything for their holiday feast—a real American celebration: grilled chicken, potato salad, and rhubarb pie. She had asked Rich to pick up a six-pack of beer and just bring himself.
It was his idea of the perfect Fourth of July—complete with fireworks at the end. He had great hopes for this day and set the engagement ring out on his chest of drawers so he wouldn’t forget it.
But this morning, when the phone rang before nine, Rich had a bad feeling. Sure enough, when he picked up the phone, it was Claire.
She started right in. “Plans have changed. I have to go in to work. I’m taking Meg with me. I won’t stay long, but let’s keep it simple. How does wieners and potato chips sound?”
“Fine.”
“Sorry, I know you were looking forward to my potato salad.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you see the letter in the Durand paper?”
“Yeah. Kinda cryptic.”
“I think this guy is nuts. I just hope we catch him soon.”
“Do you think he’s going to do something today?”
Claire didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I hope not.”
Because her hope sounded rather fragile, he decided not to push the subject. “What time do you want me to come over?”
Claire paused, then asked, “Can I call you?”
He hated the idea of waiting the whole day for her to call. “Give me a guesstimate.”
“No later than seven.”
There went their day together. He had finished his chores first thing in the morning, assuming he would meet her around noon. “Fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
He was peeved, but he didn’t feel like discussing it with her. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m worrying.”
“You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“What do you know about the Schuler murders?”
“I was only a toddler.”
“I know. I want a full report tonight. Love you. ’Bye.”
He liked how easily and casually she had said she loved him. As if it were that much a part of her life. That felt good. So she had to work. Big deal. Maybe he would wander down to the beach. He hadn’t spent any time looking for arrowheads in quite a while.
But before he did anything, he would call his mother. She expected him to at least check in on holidays.
“Happy Fourth of July. Beatrice Haggard here.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Rich, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What did she say?”
“Who?”
“Claire. Did she say yes?”
Shoot, he had forgotten to call his mother and tell her what had delayed the proposing. Since he had gotten the ring from her, he should have known she would be waiting on tenterhooks, as she might say. “Oh, I haven’t asked yet.”
“Why ever not?”
He didn’t need his mom to get all nosy on him. “Hasn’t come up.”
“Rich, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s no big deal. It will happen and you will be among the first to know. Claire’s been busy with work. I wanted to pop the question at the right moment.”
“Of course, that’s important.”
“I’ll let you know.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Hey, Mom, what do you remember about when that farm family—the Schulers—were all murdered? You were living down here at that time, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was, and it was just awful. Why do you want to know?”
“Well, it’s a long story, but it’s come up in Claire’s work, and she was asking me about it.”
“Well, that was right after I married your father. I had just moved out to Fort St. Antoine to live on the farm. And I was scared to begin with, having been a city girl and all. Everything scared me—the animals, the thunderstorms, the trains at night—you name it. I was so young.” His mother’s voice faded off.
“Then this horrible massacre happened and I was petrified. They never found out who did it. Can you imagine? All I could think of at night was that he might take it into his head to come and kill us all at the Haggard farm. Wasn’t so very far away from where the Schulers lived. Everyone was scared.”
“Were there any rumors about who did it?”
“Well, the Schulers weren’t very well liked. Otto Schuler was a recent immigrant from Germany, and anti-German sentiments were still running high after the war. His English was very bad and he wasn’t a very good farmer. Most everyone liked Bertha, but Otto was too proud to ask for help. I think they were deep in debt. Close to losing their farm. Then all the kids. Although everyone had a lot of children in those years. As far as who did it, I never heard of particular accusations. Although I’m not sure I would have. I was still pretty new to the community.”
“Well, if you think of anything else, let me know.”
“Well, if you propose tonight, you let me know.” With that, she hung up.
Ray Sorenson woke up with a boner. He ached with desire but he was alone in his twin-sized bed and he could hear his mother down in the kitchen, putting the pots and pans away loud enough to wake him up. He didn’t think he should do anything about it.
First he looked at his watch, which he always wore except when he took a shower. Ten o’clock—not so late. Then he lifted up the sheets, stared at his “soldier,” as Tiffany liked to call it, and apologized to it for having to ignore its demands.
He shouldn’t have thought of Tiffany. He ached all the more. She was one hot girl, or woman, as she wanted to be called. He had heard of guys who had to beg their girlfriends to even touch their privates. Tiffany was different. She had shown him what it was all about, giving him a blow job in the custodian’s closet when they stayed after school one day. When she had decided it was time to go all the way, she had brought the condoms. Plural, because she said he was such a stud.
She had moved here from Chicago and explained that the kids were all doing it there. She wouldn’t tell him how many guys she had been with before him. “What do you care?” she would say. “I’m with you now.”
Sometimes he actually felt a little used. She said she thought he would be good in bed because he had such nice, strong hands. Tiffany made no bones about the fact that she was leaving Pepin County—and wouldn’t be looking back
—as soon as she graduated. “I don’t belong here,” she would tell him. “I’m not sure which coast I’m going to go to.”
The first time she said that he hadn’t realized she had been talking about New York or Los Angeles. He thought she meant she wanted to live by the ocean. He had learned to not talk too much around her. She liked him quiet and ready. He never knew when she might want his services.
His mother’s voice reached him. “Ray?”
He sat up in bed, knowing he’d better answer her or she’d come up and barge into his room. That thought caused his soldier to go “at ease.” He hollered back, “What do you want, Mom?”
“Do you want to get up?”
What a question. “No.”
She was quiet. Then she said, “I’ll make you some breakfast.”
He knew that she was lonesome. He was the last kid at home, and his dad was gone a lot, working at the co-op. She loved to cook and look after everyone and now they were all gone. Except him.
He crawled out of bed, opened his bedroom door, and yelled down to her, “I’m coming.”
“Do you want pancakes or French toast?”
“Either.”
She was quiet again. That wasn’t the right answer. She really did want to know what he wanted.
“Pancakes sound good.”
He threw on an old Farm Feed T-shirt, a band that he had seen in Milwaukee, and pulled on the jeans he had worn last night. After stopping in the bathroom to pee and rinse his mouth out, he went downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
“Raymond,” his mother admonished him, but with no sternness in her voice.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the counter, where she had already set out a plate for him.
“What time did you come in last night? I didn’t hear you.”
“Not that late.”
“I was up till twelve.”
“Maybe about one.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Mom, it’s a holiday. I’m going to be a senior. We were just goofing around.”
“Were you with that Tiffany?”
“No.” He didn’t have to lie about that. She had gone up to Chicago with her folks for the holiday. That was why he had been in such a needy condition this morning. Missing her.