by Mary Logue
“Better shape?”
“Means different things to different people. Many farmers believe nothing like a couple silos and a pole barn to spruce up a place. Mow everything in sight. No hedgerows for these folks. Myself, I’m partial to trees. First thing I did when I took over my uncle’s farm, I planted five thousand pine trees. I won’t live to see them in their prime, but I’ve been enjoying them every year I’ve been there.” He remembered the weekend they were delivered to his house. It was in early April, frost lifting out of the ground, slightly drizzly day, not a great day to be outside, but excellent tree-planting weather. He had dug holes for hours and then would go back over a row and lay the trees gently on their side. The next pass-through, he would firm the soil around their roots. The rows lined up, and after two days he had his forest planted.
Next to him, he was aware of Claire sighing. Then she said, “I’d like to have a pine tree on my property. I love the way snow sits on their branches in winter.”
THEY PULLED UP to the VFW and got out of the car. The hall was an old barn, still painted red but with “VFW” in huge yellow letters over the door. The front of it was lit up with a floodlight, and twenty cars were lined up in front of the building, half of them pickups. Rich remembered his mom and dad bringing him to square dances here in the late sixties. He had hated coming, thought it was sissy, but when his mom got him out on the floor, he had fun. The whirling and twirling of all the intricate steps made him laugh until his sides ached.
When they stepped through the front door and into the hall, they could hear the noise of chairs being pushed back, people talking. Rich recognized Mr. Brown from the village board meeting. He sat on a stool at the front door and welcomed people. Mrs. Langston was talking to Fred and Darla Anderson up near the podium, but when Claire and Rich walked in, she came right over to the door.
“I am sorry,” she said insincerely to Rich and Claire, “but this is not a public meeting. Members only.” She tilted her head. “I’m sure you understand.”
Rich waited a beat, then reached into his pocket and took out his wallet “I certainly do, Mrs. Langston.” He extracted a membership card. “That’s why I joined. Claire is my guest. I’m sure that’s fine, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Langston shriveled. Her chin pulled in, her eyes sunk, her mouth tightened. “Oh, you are a member. When did that happen?”
“When I heard you were coming to the town board meeting. I wanted to get to know your organization a little better.” A glance at Claire told him she was trying to keep a straight face through this exchange.
Mrs. Langston turned away without a word.
Rich took Claire’s arm and walked her to a folding chair toward the back.
“Wow. Why did you join?”
“I like to know the enemy.”
The meeting started out calmly enough. The minutes were read, and news of recent development along the river discussed. Prices that bluffland was attaining were read with good cheer. Defeat of a bluffland ordinance—forbidding building on a certain slope and a certain distance from the edge—in another county in Wisconsin was cheered by all except Rich and Claire.
They had sat toward the back, and Rich felt as if he were watching the proceedings of a religious group. That kind of fervor floated in the room. Off to the side a small fire was burning in the fireplace of the old hall, taking the chill off the cooling night air. Rich watched it burn comfortably. Maybe they’d serve coffee and cookies afterward, and he would feel like a fool for coming.
Mrs. Langston led the meeting and asked different speakers to take the stand. They all preached the same rhetoric. He recognized much of it; he had bought pamphlets from the extreme right, just to see what they were up to. Landowners should be able to do whatever they wanted with their land. Neither the federal nor state and most certainly not local government should restrict their use in any manner. They were against the DNR, strongly against any environmental groups, often against their neighbors’ wishes expressed in the local village and township board meetings.
Then Mrs. Langston asked Fred Anderson to get up and speak on the possibility of a large development right on the border of Fort St. Antoine. Rich had always thought Fred was a sorry man—never made much of himself, supported by his brother Landers for much of his life. Fred went to all sorts of meetings, forever trying to fit in someplace. Maybe he had found his niche with the Landowners group.
Fred climbed up on the small stage and put a large map up on a stand. Rich recognized the Fort St. Antoine township, the area that surrounded the village. Fred smiled his awful grin, lips stretched across crooked teeth in a pained way, and looked down at Darla sitting in the front row. She nodded at him, and for a moment, the smile turned warm. Then Fred started to speak. ‘We’ve had some experts draw up this map for us. It’s the beginning of what could be a big boom time for this whole region. And if you ask me, it’s about time. Those who have stood in our way, watch out For here we are.”
He slapped the map with his hand, and it flipped off the stand. When he bent over to pick it up, he knocked the stand over. Darla came running up to help him. She grabbed the map away from him and set it back up.
Rich stared at the map. He had heard talk of this project before, but this was the first time he was privy to the exact layout of their development. The land they were talking about included a huge chunk of Landers’ ten acres. At the moment the boundary ran right along the top of Rich’s land, but it was obvious what his land would mean to the development—much better access to highway 35, better land with better views. Down here people paid top buck for a view of the lake.
Fred rambled on about everyone pulling together on this. How it would provide jobs for the whole area. Rich thought about how hard it was to find anyone to work already; Stuart often complained that he couldn’t find enough people to work in his bakery. He wondered where they were going to find this labor pool to support the infrastructure they had designed: grocery store, nature center, amphitheater, art gallery, day care center. Much of it sounded good, but not even slightly realistic. Fred talked of building homes for five hundred people. That would make this development over three times the size of Fort St. Antoine.
Rich raised his hand. Fred ignored him.
Rich stood up and began speaking. “Have you run these plans past the DNR? Seems to me like a lot of your development takes place on the floodplain. I don’t think they’d approve any new building down there. Why, they’re trying to buy up property of people who already live in the floodplain.”
“We would build it up. Structure it so it wouldn’t be that low anymore.”
“With what? How? If you dredge the lake, the muck you get off the bottom has got to be put in a toxic waste dump. You can’t use that to build up land. It’s too loaded with PCBs. How are you going to make this all happen?” Rich heard an edge creep into his voice. He needed to calm down. Talk slowly, make sense. Don’t let the anger ruin what he was trying to say to these people.
Fred glared at Rich. “That’s none of your business.”
Rich let his words hang in the air for a moment before he answered, then spoke slowly and clearly. “Yes, it is my business. I will be as affected by this development as anyone else.” Rich paused and looked around the room. All eyes were on him. “I am not against development of this area. It will come in spite of any of us. But I think we need to be very thoughtful about what we allow to happen to our region. We don’t want to destroy the very things we love about our river valley.” Rich sat down.
Talk went on for a while longer. People were excited about the potential money they could see getting for their land. Fred told anyone who was interested in more information on the development to see him after the meeting.
To end the meeting, Mrs. Langston led them in a rousing chorus “My country ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing….” All voices rose on “Let freedom ring.”
Then she held up a straw figure that been hidden behind the podium. “Let me i
ntroduce you all to one of our favorite people—Mr. DNR Agent. We’ve built a wonderful fire just for him.” She waved the sorry figure in the air and then carried it over to the fire. The straw figure had no face. A DNR hat perched on top of the straw mass. A striped blue T-shirt and a pair of jeans made up his outfit, with mismatched gloves for hands, and old Red Wing boots tied onto his feet. Mrs. Langston tossed him in, to applause, and then said if anyone had an item for the “avenging fire,” to bring it forward.
Rich could feel Claire getting agitated next to him. It was pretty ghastly watching someone being burned in effigy. He had heard of such things, but had thought they were relegated to a distant past, when crowds in small towns could lose control. And now it was happening in his territory. Claire rose to her feet, staring at the fire.
Rich stood up next to her and motioned with his head toward the door. She nodded, and they filed out.
Outside, the air smelled like spring, and the stars scattered light across the sky.
“What did you notice?” he asked her once they had climbed into the truck.
“I saw something in the fire.”
She was shivering, and he felt the urge to put an arm around her. Instead he turned the truck on so it would heat up. “Yes?” “The effigy was wearing one of Landers’ gardening gloves.” “How can you be sure it was his?” “I gave the gloves to him.”
12
When Claire heard the doorbell ring at six-thirty in the morning, it scared her. She sat up in bed and thought, I don’t want to get that. It can only be bad news. She looked down at her hands and saw them clutching the sheet. Wake up, she told herself. Answer the door. It could be anything.
When she ran down the stairs and saw Bridget on her doorstep, she went into a real panic.
“What?” She flung the door open. “Why are you here?”
“I’m okay, big sister. Calm down.”
“Calm down. Did you stay up all night? You’re never awake at this time of day.”
“I did not manage to sleep much last night.”
Claire looked at Bridget. She was wearing a nightgown under her jean jacket. Her blond curly hair was knotted on top of her head. Her eyes looked sore and weepy. But it was the set of her shoulders that got to Claire. Bridget always rushed forward, her shoulders straight and steady. Now they seemed broken into her body. “Come on in, sweetie. What’s going on?”
“Chuck didn’t come home again.”
“Again, what’s this again?” She pulled Bridget through the door.
On the rug inside the door, Bridget sank to her knees. “Claire, what am I going to do? He’s too important to me. I can’t bear the thought of losing him.”
“Bridget, stand up. You’re coming into the kitchen table to have a cup of tea. And be quiet. Meg is still sleeping.” Claire could hear their mother in her voice. When faced with calamity, get mad. Yell at whoever. But, absolutely, make tea. Tea solved it all in their family.
She put the water on and let Bridget compose herself. When she looked over at her sitting at the table, Bridget was smearing tears around her face with the backs of her hands. Claire handed her a paper towel and sat down opposite her.
“Talk.”
Bridget looked up at her, and Claire saw the deep pain she was in. It floated like an oil slick on her eyes. She took Claire’s hand and said, “How did you do it?”
“What?” Claire asked, even though she thought she knew what Bridget was asking.
“How did you stand it when Steve died?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“If this feels anything like what you went through, I had no idea.”
“Tell me what’s going on, Bridget Hanora.”
That got her. Bridget snuffled another tear or two, wiped her face thoroughly, and got herself in hand. “Two nights ago, he didn’t come home. This has never happened before. So I called his brother in the morning, and he claimed Chuck had just left. But I didn’t believe him. Then Chuck showed up at work. Said he had one too many, it was too late, he didn’t want to call. Fact is, he said he felt pretty stupid about it. Him, I believed. You know him. So he does the same thing last night Goes over to his brother’s. He tells me they’re almost done with this new car. He’s gotta finish it up. I fall asleep on the couch watching TV. When I wake up, it’s after two. He’s still not home. I call his brother. This time he can’t cover for him. He tells me Chuck left hours ago. I sat up until three. Then I drove down to the all-night diner. Then I came here.” She burst into tears again. The teakettle started to wail.
Meg shuffled down the steps and said, “I had a bad dream.”
Claire poured the water into the teapot Then she grabbed Meg, carted her to the table, and held her in her lap, something she hadn’t done in a long time. Meg was all arms and legs, like a spider. She smelled sweet and warm from bed. She’s growing so, Claire thought.
‘What do you think is going on?” Claire asked her.
“I’m afraid he’s seeing someone else.”
Claire thought of Chuck. She would never forget the first time she met him. He was fishing and had just caught a large trout in a stream near Lake Pepin. He was so excited, he was screaming. His cry was such a pure sound of joy, it brought tears to her eyes. He clapped his hands on her and then realized he had smeared her with fish slime. He had started to try to wipe her off, but they both ended up laughing too hard to do anything about it.
He read like clear water. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything to hurt Bridget. He loved her as dearly as he loved his own life. Or did Claire just want to think that?
Claire rocked Meg in her arms, held on to her a little too tight, so she squirmed. “I don’t believe Chuck would do that.”
RICH GOT UP early the morning after the meeting. The sun was not up yet, but the sky held its rose promise. After checking the bread drawer and finding it empty, he decided he needed a couple scones to help him start out the day. He threw on his clothes, hopped into his pickup truck, and sailed down to the bakery. Stuart wasn’t officially open for business this early, but he let Rich come and get some goodies if he needed them.
It was Rich’s favorite time to stop by. He would stand in the doorway to the kitchen, eat a scone or two, and watch Stuart whiz around the kitchen, pulling loaves of bread from ovens, weighing rolls, and then twisting them into mounded shapes.
“Well, my Lord, if it isn’t Monsier le Faisan.” Stuart was in high humor.
“How many cups of coffee have you had?”
“I’m way ahead of you. Help yourself.” He pointed at the pot that stewed on the stove and kept the coffee more than warm, bordering on simmering, and growing in strength as the day progressed.
Rich poured himself a cup in the mug Stuart kept on hand for him. They were friends. It surprised Rich. He hadn’t known many gay men before Stuart had come to town. He had never seen himself as antigay, more he just wasn’t sure what he’d have in common with them. But he got along great with Stuart.
Their friendship had started the day the two of them volunteered to build two new picnic tables for the park. Stuart confessed that he didn’t know how to hammer a nail into a board after handing Rich two fresh-baked rolls and a huge cup of coffee. Rich looked at the food in his hand, said, “I guess a fellow can’t know how to do everything,” and set to work showing him some basic carpentry. Late afternoon, the picnic tables were done, Stuart had only pounded his thumb a couple times, and Rich had laughed as hard as he had working with his grandpa. They went to the Fort and had a couple beers. That was eight years ago. If anyone had asked, Rich would have said that Stuart was his best pal.
Rich said, “You know, I’d have to say you’re more in the know down here in town. Am I right?”
Stuart pushed his cap back on his head and wiped his hands with a towel he kept tied to his apron strings. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, do you know Claire Watkins very well?”
“Claire, huh.” Stuart nodded and went back to kne
ading some dough. “That doesn’t surprise me a bit.”
“What’s to be surprised about? I’m just curious about something.”
Stuart stopped kneading the dough and slapped it a couple times on the big wooden table. Then he turned to look at Rich. “Yes.”
“What’s the story on her husband?”
“She doesn’t talk about him much.”
“I know that.”
One final slap of the dough. “She doesn’t talk about him at all. But I heard from Ruth, you know Ruth up on the hill, that she heard from a friend of hers in town that her husband was hit by a truck and killed.”
“What’s so mysterious about that?”
“Well, I don’t think that’s the whole story. There was something weird about it. He was hit by the car right in front of their house. In broad daylight. Claire was a detective for the Minneapolis Police Department at the time.”