“Ah, well, a patient comes to see me because they are in pain, or they do not like what they see in the mirror and they want to change. I can give them a smile, as perfect a face as they could ask for. I make order out of what they were given. I make them beautiful. You make them smart by giving them the location of information. In the end, our pursuit is perfection. Everything has its place, no?”
“Yes, I guess it does.” I didn’t see how dentistry and indexing had anything in common, but I appreciated Henrik’s effort to make it so. Most of the time I felt like an outsider as an indexer, an odd bird. Henrik didn’t see me that way. I smiled consciously, knowing the health of my teeth were most likely being judged.
Darlys tugged on my arm. “We should get to the kitchen. I think the ladies are going to need our help soon. If you’ll excuse us.” She motioned for me to pick up the Dutch oven.
I smiled and did as I was instructed, then followed Darlys into the crowd, toward the kitchen. “That man,” she said, under her breath, exasperated.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, nothing. Never mind.”
We weaved in and out of people, heading slowly toward the kitchen, and I was left to wonder what her problem with Henrik was.
“Is that your knoephla soup?” Darlys said over her shoulder.
“Is that okay?” She wasn’t going to expound, and I wasn’t going to press.
“Oh, ya betcha. No one’s brought knoephla. There’s some lamb and cabbage stew, meatballs, some Fleischkuekle that Theda brought that I can’t wait to try, and more pies and fruit salads on the table than you can shake a stick at.”
I hadn’t had a meat pie in a long time. Fleischkuekle was a German dish made with ground beef and onions that brought back warm memories for me. The first time I’d ever eaten it was at a little diner in Stanton, the county seat of Mercer County, to the northeast of us. Hank had taken me there on our first date.
The Jacobsens’ eat-in kitchen was small, about ten feet by ten feet, enough room for a two-burner stove, a Kelvinator refrigerator, some cabinets, and a double sink. A heavy steel dinette set sat in the corner. All of the chairs were in the front room. The table was loaded with enough food to last a month. I resisted the temptation to start reorganizing the table in alphabetic order. Apple salad, banana pudding, crumb cake, kuchen, lefse, sour cream and raisin pie, and so on. All that food was nothing more than a smorgasbord of sadness that I had seen before.
Connie Llewellyn, Pastor’s wife, turned from the sink and stopped washing dishes when I entered the room.
“Well, Mrs. Trumaine, how nice to see you. Darlys said you were going to join us.” A big smile accompanied Connie’s kind words.
“I’m happy to be here.” That wasn’t entirely true, considering the circumstances.
I carried the knoephla over to the table, found an empty spot between the lefse and the kuchen, then turned to face a grim Theda Parsons. The two of us had rarely spoken, our paths opposite and divergent. I could tell from the set of her jaw and the coldness in her dim blue eyes that she held the same grudge against me that her brother did.
“Good to see you, too, Theda,” I added.
“Likewise,” Theda Parsons said, then turned back around and resumed her chore of drying dishes.
“Where can I put this?” I said as I took off my coat. I was warm all over, except for my feet.
“I’ll put your coat on the kids’ bed,” Darlys said. She extended her right hand. “You can put your purse over in the cupboard with ours.”
I handed my coat to Darlys, then made my way to the cupboard.
The cupboard was stuffed full of crackers, canned soup, and at least fifty boxes of lime Jell-O. I set my purse on an empty shelf with the other purses. “What do you need?” I said, as I faced the two women. Darlys hadn’t returned yet.
“You can make a round through the front room, collect any empty plates, and see if anybody needs anything,” Theda said to me, more like she was talking to an employee than a friend. “Getting nigh onto dinnertime for most of these men, and we need to fix plates to take over to the sheriff ’s office, too.”
Connie stepped in between us. “I think Pastor was hoping you would speak with Anna,” she said in a low voice. “He knows you have a little experience at this sort of thing and might be able to offer some comfort that he can’t.” The look on her face wouldn’t allow me to say no. “I’ll take care of making the rounds. Go ahead and take a cup of tea to Anna. Something hot will do her good.”
“Yes, of course,” I answered. “I haven’t a clue what to say to Anna, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”
“You have a gift for words, Marjorie. I know you’ll have no trouble with an offering from the heart.”
I stood there stiffly, surrounded by the smell of food created to ward off fear and shock, the sound of small talk, bordering on gossip at a low volume, all the while searching my mind for something more than clichés or greeting card sayings. I couldn’t come up with anything on the spot. I was running a little low on hope and happiness myself.
CHAPTER 12
I knocked on the bedroom door, and said, “Hello . . . Anna, it’s me, Marjorie.” Then I waited, the teacup warm in my hand, Lipton orange pekoe aroma wavering upward in thin, familiar vapors. I was uncomfortable, certain that I was about to face a woman shattered by a cruelty no one deserved to experience. How did Guy tell her? Your husband was murdered. There was no easy way to say such a thing.
I heard a distant rustling and soft voices from inside the bedroom, then footsteps padded to the door. When the door opened, I stood facing a shorter, older version of Anna Jacobsen. I immediately assumed the tidy woman was Anna’s mother. Her cotton-ball white hair was perfectly set, and she was dressed in a gray wool skirt, with a handmade sweater to match.
“Yes?” the woman said, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Pastor’s wife sent me with a cup of tea,” I whispered. “Do you think she’s up to some company?”
The woman didn’t let go of her suspicious frown. “And you are?”
“I’m Marjorie. Marjorie Trumaine. I have a farm south of town. Anna’s been visiting me since my husband, Hank, passed away last fall.”
Another voice, weak and distant, said, “Who’s there mother?” I recognized Anna’s voice. She sounded ill, next to death, shattered. I wasn’t surprised.
“A Marjorie Trumaine with a cup of tea. Would you like that?” her mother said.
“Yes, please let her in. I’m sure you could use a break from me.”
Anna’s mother let her stiff shoulders fall. The tightness in her wind-worn face relaxed, too. Even in the light from where I stood, the woman looked ashen, drained of energy and emotion. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” She pulled open the door and stepped back to let me into the bedroom.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m Abigail Olson, Anna’s mother,” the woman said, then closed the door, shutting out the low hum of chatter coming from the front room and kitchen.
“Nice to meet you.” I balanced the saucer and teacup in my left hand, and extended my right hand. Abigail returned the gesture with a soft shake. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
Anna’s mother sighed, and looked upward at nothing in particular. “This is quite a shock for us all. Anna has spoken of you, told me about your husband’s accident.”
“Yes. Hank fought a long, hard battle.”
“He’s in a better place now,” she said.
I forced a blank look to stay on my face and stopped the words that were about to erupt from my mouth. I couldn’t bring myself to accept the idea that the better place Hank was in wasn’t with me. Most people took comfort in the idea that my husband was waiting for me in the afterlife, in heaven, but my broken faith wouldn’t allow that kind of hope to take seed. My heart had suffered a severe break that had left lingering damage. Hank was the optimistic one. He’d had to be positive to make a living as a farmer. There was alwa
ys a problem to confront and conquer: the weather, grasshoppers, rust on the barley, or a pigeon grass invasion. You name the challenge, Hank always had something to overcome, something to test his will, his faith. I wasn’t sure that I would ever believe in anything again, though that in itself was like losing a part of myself.
I didn’t say anything to Abigail. I wasn’t about to share my feelings about a better place with her. Instead, I looked past her to Anna, who was sitting on the edge of an unmade double bed, staring at the dresser across from her. The small piece of furniture was loaded with perfume bottles and pictures, mostly of her kids but a few were of her and Nils when they were younger, at least ten years ago, before they’d gotten married and had kids. They looked good together, a perfect fit, with their whole life ahead of them.
“I think I will step out for a minute, Anna,” Abigail said.
The room smelled of sickness. A sour, pungent odor met my nose as soon as I walked farther into the bedroom, replacing the soothing aroma of the tea. I spied the source of the smell as I looked back at Anna. A wastebasket sat at her feet. She was sick to her stomach, and the tiny house, like most houses I knew of, only had one inside bathroom. Anna had chosen to stay hidden in her bedroom for fear of running out and letting a room full of people see her in her current state. I didn’t blame her.
“I’ll be fine, Momma. I’ve told you, Marjorie is a friend,” Anna said.
I waited until Abigail was gone before I took the tea to Anna. I restrained the temptation to ask, How are you? I knew how she was. Numb, lost, unable to say how she felt, because she had never felt this way in her whole life. I was certain Anna Jacobsen wanted more than anything was to lay down, go to sleep, and never wake up again.
Anna took the tea, stared into the cup, and didn’t bother to take a sip. She wore a heavy pink robe, wrapped snugly around her body to keep herself as warm as possible. Her swollen feet were stuffed into a matching pair of fuzzy house-slippers. Her face was puffy, too, and I had the same fleeting thought cross my mind as the last time that I had seen her: Are you pregnant? I couldn’t bring myself to ask the question. I could only continue to hope that I was wrong. Especially now.
I sat down next to Anna. “I’m sorry,” I said. There was nothing else I could come up with to say. Then I shut up. If Anna wanted to talk, she would, and if she didn’t, then I would sit quietly with her for a while. I couldn’t change anything that had happened or anything that was going to happen. She had enough people telling her what to feel, what to think, what to do. She didn’t need my two cents.
A little space heater hummed in the corner, the elements as red and hot as the inside of a toaster, and a small lamp on the opposite nightstand offered some dim light. Anna’s face was pale. Her eyes were as red as the summer sun and dry as a drought—she looked all cried out.
“What do you think Nils was doing out there, Marjorie?” she finally said. “I haven’t dared ask anyone because I can’t make sense of any of this. He never went out to South Heart. I can’t think of any reason he’d be near there. Mills Standish took care of any business with the Rinkermans.” She let the name trail off. The girl was still missing, as far as we both knew.
I understood why a butcher would need Toren’s services, either as a welder or as a blade sharpener, but that didn’t explain why Nils was at the shelterbelt. That was a question for the sheriff to ask, but I was as confused as Anna was.
“I can’t believe he’s really dead,” Anna went on. “I expect him to walk in the door any minute and ask what all of these people are doing in our house. What in the heck was he doing so far from town, so far from us?” she said.
“I don’t know, Anna,” I said softly. I wondered if she knew that I was with Guy when he’d found Nils. I wondered if Darlys had told her. “I’m sure the police will figure this out.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“I am. They’re good, smart men. All of them.” Anna had mentioned the new sheriff at my house in a negative way. I got the impression that she didn’t think much of Guy Reinhardt but had restrained herself because she knew we were friends.
Anna trembled, pleaded with her eyes for me to tell her that this was nothing but a bad dream. I knew the look. The teacup and saucer clanked in her hand like the first notes of a sad song. “We argued the night before, Marjorie. We said terrible things to each other. He stormed out, and he never came back. I thought he’d go to the store and sleep in his office. That’s what he always did, and then, the next day, I thought I’d find a box of chocolates on the kitchen table. But they weren’t there. I’ll never be able to tell him I’m sorry.” A tear ran down Anna’s cheek. She set the teacup on the floor, then dabbed the tear away. “How does a person live with something like that, Marjorie?”
I exhaled and looked up at the ceiling like Anna’s mother had. I had no answers for her. None that I could form in my mind that would offer any comfort. I had told Hank all of my fears and regrets, and he had told me his. We’d had plenty of time to say what we had to tell each other before he died. Anna didn’t get that time. I had no direct experience with the kind of loss she was experiencing.
Darlys had told me about the argument but not what it was about. I wasn’t going to dare ask, but I couldn’t help myself from being curious. What in the world did Anna and Nils have to fight about? Me and Hank had our disagreements, but they were never so severe that Hank went off and slept somewhere else. He’d refused to go to bed mad. I couldn’t understand a marriage that wasn’t like mine, but I knew everyone was different. Besides, what did I know about keeping house for a working husband and raising three kids in this day and age?
I leaned over and pulled Anna next to me. We sat in silence, glued in place, protected by the brick on the outside and the goodwill in the front room. Abigail eventually returned and relieved me from my spot. To be honest, I was glad to leave the sad and stuffy bedroom. I could hardly breathe in there.
CHAPTER 13
Helen Greggson, Anna’s next-door neighbor, had returned to the kitchen. She didn’t look familiar to me, and I was sure that I didn’t look familiar to her, but I knew of her. She was the neighbor who watched Anna’s children when she had Ladies Aid duties. Our paths hadn’t crossed at church, and I had little contact with anyone at the university, where Helen worked.
Living a half hour out of town was isolating, to say the least, and Hank’s accident had really kept me from circulating among people. Not that I socialized a whole lot, anyway. I’ve never been ambitious that way, not like Darlys Oddsdatter was, and I was sure I never would be.
“I remember your cousin,” Helen said. The hard look on the woman’s face said everything. She didn’t seem to like Raymond too much. I couldn’t blame her. Raymond had put on airs as a child and never took them off.
Helen Greggson was older than I was by at least thirty years. That put her in her mid-sixties, old enough to be my mother. She wore her age well. Her blue eyes were bright as a robin’s egg, she stood up straight and tall, and she was dressed in a black wool dress that helped her look slender and fit. Her ring finger was bare and showed no sign that jewelry of any kind had ever touched her skin. I wondered if she was a widow like Anna and me or had chosen not to marry. I was curious how a woman survived life after the loss of a husband. There were no manuals for such things that I knew of.
“I have to say,” Helen continued, “that I didn’t see much of your cousin. I worked in the bursar’s office for almost forty years. Professors of his ilk had little cause to visit us. I was a cashier and an accounting clerk, you know. His father, the dean, was another story. Mr. Hurtibese was a nice man when he was out of range of people who mattered.”
I certainly wasn’t going to gush on about Raymond or his father, but I wasn’t going to speak ill of the dead, either. “Raymond rarely left his office, from what I understand.”
“Well, he faced a sad end, didn’t he?” Helen said. “But no one was really surprised.”
The other wome
n in the kitchen, Connie, Darlys, and Theda, went about their business, acting as if they weren’t listening. Gossip was a type of currency in a small town, and not one that I liked to carry with me. There was no escaping peoples’ fears and opinions. The stories we passed from one person to the other connected us in a way. I wasn’t any more accustomed to sharing gossip than taking to off my wedding rings.
More food had arrived on the crowded table, and more dirty dishes had piled up next to the sink. A low hum of conversation wafted in from the front room. My mouth had dried up as I searched for some decency within myself. I didn’t take the bait from Helen Greggson and speak poorly of Raymond.
Connie turned around from the sink, and said, “Marjorie, I was wondering if you’d like to run some food over to the sheriff ’s office with Darlys. I think the three of us can handle this crowd while you’re away.” She spoke to me, but stared at Helen Greggson with disapproval.
Rescued again. I was starting to like Connie Llewelyn even more than I thought I did.
Darlys and I shuffled across the street to the courthouse like penguins on a mission. The wind had picked up since I’d arrived at the Jacobsens’, but the sky was void of any falling snow. Gray clouds marched eastward in as much of a hurry to flee the cold as we were. My plan was to be home before six more inches of promised snow started to fall in earnest. We didn’t speak, didn’t chatter on about anything. All of our focus was on staying upright and not dropping the plates of food Connie Llewellyn had sent over to the sheriff ’s office.
Once inside, we stopped to catch our breath in the building’s small vestibule. A wall heater blew warm air out of a rusted grate, fighting a losing battle. Darlys was dressed in her blue parka and Arctic boots, and I was still in my long coat and dress shoes. I couldn’t feel my feet.
“Goodness, Marjorie, you’re gonna freeze to death if you don’t watch yourself,” Darlys said, pulling back her fur-lined hood. Somehow, she managed to keep every blonde hair perfectly in place. She must’ve practiced that move a hundred times.
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