by Mary Logue
Claire started laughing. “Oh, Meggy. I think you’re right. She does a little. Why does that make me feel better?”
Rich tried again. “Meg, have you finished your homework?”
She shook her head.
“Go on up and finish it. You can talk to your mom later.”
Meg wrinkled up her face as if she had eaten something rude. “What’s with you tonight?”
Claire nodded at Meg. “I’ll be up in a little while.”
Meg snorted and ran up the stairs.
Claire pushed away her plate. She hadn’t quite finished her meatloaf. “I like to see Meg when I get home from work.”
Rich felt he needed to stand his ground on this one. “I don’t think you should talk to her about your work as much as you do.”
Claire took her dishes into the kitchen. She came back out with a glass of water and stood looking at Rich. “I know how to raise my daughter.”
Rich didn’t say anything right away. This was dangerous territory. He needed to weigh his words. “Yes, but sometimes all she has is me.”
The Grand Casino was located a few miles outside of Red Wing, Minnesota—about a thirty-five-minute drive for Patty Jo. First the Prairie Island nuclear power plant came into view, then right across the street the bright lights of the casino appeared. The one time she had taken Walter to the casino, he had laughed when he saw the two huge buildings were right next to each other on the banks of the Mississippi. “If the power plant blows, what’ll go first is a bunch of gamblers.”
Walter didn’t approve of gambling and they’d stayed only a little while, long enough for him to lose $10 in the quarter slot machines. Patty Jo hadn’t let him know how often she went. After he had his stroke, she had become a regular. One night she had won $2,000 in the dollar slots, her biggest haul. She didn’t want to think about how much money she had lost since then.
Sitting in the casino’s parking lot, she worried about selling the farm. A real-estate agent was coming out to meet with her early next week. She had to have that money. She had seriously racked up her credit cards, but maybe that would all change. Tonight she felt lucky.
When she walked in the front door of the casino, the first thing she saw was the new car they were giving away—a silver Mercedes. Patty Jo could see herself behind the wheel of such a vehicle. She would stay only three hours, she promised herself. Long enough to be there for the drawing for the car. Long enough to take advantage of her lucky feeling. All it took was being at the one right machine at the one right moment.
Patty Jo started out at a row of slots in the back room, the Bewitched row. She had once won a thousand dollars on a Bewitched slot machine. She remembered every machine she had ever been lucky at. She didn’t like to stay at any one machine too long. Moving around gave her a sense that she was in control. The right place at the right time was her mantra.
At the end of two hours, Patty Jo was down over $1,000. She had to get back to even. When she did that she would leave. She needed to take out a little more money on her credit card. One thousand would get her back in the clear. She went to the cashier and got the necessary money.
Just as she watched her last twenty credits disappear from the screen of the slot machine, she heard them calling the numbers for the drawing. She sat stunned. She had lost over $2,000. Her worst night ever.
Patty Jo held the entries for the car in her hand. Every time she had come into the casino in the last week she had been given an entry. But the numbers called were never hers. She knew she shouldn’t keep sitting at a slot machine when she wasn’t playing. That was considered bad manners at the casino. But she didn’t want to leave. She felt so empty, as if she had been gutted.
She walked out the door of the casino and was surprised by how dark it was outside. She hated the idea of going back to that cold and empty farmhouse. She hated that place. If it wasn’t for Margaret and her friend the cop, she would have already sold the farm. Why was that deputy Claire Watkins sticking her nose in? She was ruining everything.
As she drove, she remembered the address she had written down before she went to the casino, Claire Watkins’s address in Fort St. Antoine: 159 High Street. She had come across it when she was looking for someone else’s number. Maybe she should swing through Fort St. Antoine to see what the deputy sheriff’s house looked like. See if she had any outbuildings.
CHAPTER 18
Bridget sat and stared out at the driveway, watching for Chuck’s truck. It was nine o’clock at night. Chuck had said he would be there at nine. Bridget could hardly wait to see Rachel.
This was the first time Bridget had been home alone without Rachel. She had thought she would get many things done without her young daughter hanging on her. Instead, she had been stunned by how physically debilitating Rachel’s absence was. She felt as if a limb had been cut off her body. She kept glimpsing a small child ducking behind the dining room chairs, crawling on the rug in the living room.
Bridget had been surprised when Chuck asked if he could take Rachel one night a week. She had agreed. Bridget was pretty sure he would just take Rachel over to his mother’s house and have dinner there, letting his mother tend to the baby. However, it was better than nothing. She did not want Rachel to grow up without knowing her father and his family.
When Chuck picked Rachel up at five o’clock, they said very little to each other. Rachel began to fuss as Chuck carried her out to the car. Bridget was afraid the baby might start crying, but she went into her car seat with wide eyes and no breakdown.
“I’ll see you about nine,” he said, and drove away with Rachel staring straight ahead in the backseat, not seeing her mother waving goodbye.
Bridget went into the house, sat on the couch, pulled a pillow into her lap, and cried. She had managed to make a grilled cheese sandwich and had cleaned the kitchen, but the laundry still waited in piles upstairs in her bedroom. Maybe the babysitter would do a few loads for her tomorrow.
Ten minutes after nine, headlights turned up the driveway. Chuck’s truck parked, and he popped out but left the vehicle running. Obviously he had no intention of staying. He opened the door of the truck and leaned through to the back of the crew cab to get Rachel. Bridget ran out the door, eager to get her hands on her daughter.
“How’d she do?” Bridget asked as he deposited the sleeping child in her waiting arms.
“I think okay.” Chuck reached out and adjusted the blanket Rachel was wrapped in. “Mom had to go and feed her some cake. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine. A little cake won’t hurt her.”
Chuck took a step backward and looked like he wanted to jump back in the truck to get away from Bridget.
Bridget quickly asked, “So you are going to do this again?”
He stopped and said, “I’d like to. Is it okay?”
“I think it’s a good idea.”
Chuck looked down at Rachel. “She only cried once, and when I picked her up, she stopped. She’s starting to talk.”
“I know. What did she say?”
“Well, Mom was trying to get her to say ‘daddy.’ ”
“Did she say it?”
Chuck gave a bashful smile. “I think so. It sounded like she did.”
Bridget could hardly stand the thought that Chuck’s mother was teaching Rachel to talk to her father. Why hadn’t Bridget been able to do that? What was wrong with her? What had gone wrong with their relationship?
He climbed into his truck and drove away. As Bridget carried her into the house, Rachel opened her eyes.
“Oh,” she said in her thin, high voice, then, “Momma, Momma,” pointing her little finger at Bridget’s nose.
“Hi, my sweet girl,” Bridget said, and carted her off to bed.
Rachel was already falling asleep again. Bridget tucked her into her crib and snuggled her favorite blanket close around her face. She saw a smear of chocolate near her ear but decided to leave it until morning. Other than that, her daughter was pe
rfect.
Bridget curled into the rocking chair in Rachel’s room, trying to sort out all she was feeling. Maybe she had never given Chuck enough room to be a father. Maybe it was all her fault.
The phone rang. Bridget hurried to get it, not wanting Rachel to wake up.
When Bridget picked it up, a woman’s voice said, “I know where you live,” and hung up.
Claire watched the wrinkles disappear from her uniform as she ironed. Rich was watching the football game, but with the sound low so that they could talk. Ironing clothes was meditative for her, even therapeutic, but tonight she felt antsy, unable to sink down into the cotton landscape of crisp fabric folds.
In their division of labor, Claire had taken on the task of keeping all their clothes clean. She hoped it balanced out. Often she felt like he was doing more. Maybe she should take on a house project.
“What would you think of me painting the living room?” Claire suggested. “I think it looks dingy.”
Rich grunted. “Dingy? I painted that two years ago.”
“Maybe it’s the color.”
He turned and looked at her. “That might be nice, but you’d have to do it soon before the weather turns bad, while you can still have all the windows open. It would take a week or so. How would you have the time?”
“Well, let’s at least pick out a color. I feel like I should be doing more around here.”
“You’re doing your share.”
Claire set down the iron and came and stood in front of Rich so he couldn’t see the TV. “So what do you think? Is this living together working for you?”
He looked up at her with a questioning look. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Not at all. I just thought it’s been a couple of months and maybe we should talk about it.”
“I think the Vikings are about to get their asses kicked,” he teased her. He craned his neck so he could see the TV, but she moved to block his view.
“Don’t you want to talk?” she said.
“Come here,” he said.
She plopped herself down in his lap.
He kissed her on the nose. “How do you feel?” he asked. “You’re the one who brought this up.”
“How do people stay together? Why are Bridget and Chuck separating? I’m just thinking about all this. I don’t know if I’m holding up my end of the bargain with you.”
“What bargain is that?”
“You know, doing enough around here. Making this a home. Being a real partner.”
Rich pulled back and looked at her. “I’m not complaining. You always want to know how I’m feeling, but it’s harder for you to talk about how you’re feeling.”
Claire scrunched up her face. “I don’t know.”
“Try.” He poked her gently in the ribs.
“Hey, no poking.” She leaned back against him and didn’t say anything right away. “I think I’m feeling jealous of the time you get to spend with Meg, and I’m also feeling weird because you’re taking on the role of father for her. I know that sometimes when I’m working hard on a case I can get pretty absorbed, and I don’t know if it’s fair.”
“Well, the Meg stuff we are going to have to work out. I don’t want to take over from you, but I should get to tell her what to do once in a while.”
“I know. Sorry about the other night. I think I felt guilty about you doing it all and wanted to take a stand. To be her mom.”
“You know, you don’t need to be working. This house is paid for. I make enough money for both of us. I’ve got quite a bit put away.”
Claire thought of what it would feel like to not go into work tomorrow, to get up and make breakfast for Rich and Meg instead. Meg would go off to school, Rich would leave to drive a load of pheasants up to the Cities, and she would have the day to herself. The thought of all that time alone scared her. “Oh, I couldn’t stop working. What would I do? Who would I be?”
“I’m not saying you should.”
“Do you want me to?”
“We’ve been there before, Claire. Not if you want to keep working. That decision is totally yours. Now that we’re living together, I don’t mind you working so much. As long as I get all the rest of your time.”
“That’s enough?”
“For right now it is,” he said. Lowering his voice, although Meg had gone to sleep an hour ago, he added, “And I get to take advantage of you whenever I want.”
“Which is not often enough,” she teased.
He undid the buttons on her shirt, leaned down, and kissed her neck. It felt like raindrops. She melted a little.
The phone rang. Claire thought of letting it go. She was more interested in how Rich was making her feel. But it was almost eleven o’clock, and no one made a casual phone call at that time of night. She knew she had to answer. Reluctantly, she pulled herself out of Rich’s arms.
Patty Jo sat in her car down the road from the deputy’s house. She had driven by the house for the last few nights, wondering if she should start a fire. Just a small fire.
There was only one light on in the living room, one light on upstairs. She had seen someone walk past a window, but that was a while ago. Maybe the woman was reading in bed.
Patty Jo had tried to go home tonight, but her anger would not let her sleep. Once she got the idea in her head, she could think of little else. Although she knew it might not be smart to take on the deputy, Patty Jo felt untouchable. Who was going to believe that an older woman would do such a thing? She had never been caught before. But she was sure the deputy would know who had done it. This was what she wanted—to make the deputy know who was in control.
Patty Jo had called the sheriff and asked him to keep Claire Watkins away from her. She listed all her complaints against the deputy and then tacked on a few for good measure. He listened to her politely and assured her that he would take care of the matter, but he also said that Deputy Watkins was doing her job. Patty Jo had hung up the phone feeling even angrier.
The light in the upstairs room went out. The house sat quiet. The downstairs light was so faint, she decided it must be some sort of night-light.
Patty Jo savored the feeling of power that expanded throughout her body. What a surprise this woman would wake to. What a shock, what a horror. She would look out the window and see her garage on fire. All she would be able to think of was the fire. It would fill her mind.
Patty Jo decided to wait fifteen minutes more and then proceed. Give Watkins enough time to fall asleep. There was a half-moon, which would offer her just enough light to see her way.
The back of the detached garage was where she would start the fire—where no one passing on the road could see it. That way the fire would get a good start before the deputy would even be able to notice it from the house.
Waiting made Patty Jo want a cigarette. That feeling lasted a few days after she had her monthly smoke. The price to pay for a little pleasure.
She leaned back in the car seat and thought of learning to light fires. Her father had let her start the fires in the old burn barrel in the backyard. He’d told her that she was to light matches only when he was with her. He would hand her the big red-and-blue box of matches. As she struck the match against the side of the box, the small red tip would burst into flame, giving off a faint smell of sulfur. Excited, she would fling the match into the pile of papers, and it would explode in color and light.
She gathered up her equipment. Keep it simple—that was her motto. A candle, some matches, and a pile of soaked rags. Didn’t take much to get these old wooden structures burning. They were kindling. They went up in a flash. Too bad she couldn’t stick around to watch. She loved everything about a fire: the dancing flames, the burning roar, the sweet smell of smoke.
As if to urge her on, an owl called from the bottom of the bluff, a quavering shriek. Patty Jo took it as a sign. She patted her pocket and found the matches. No one had driven by, no one could see her. Everything was working out perfectly. Once she made up her mi
nd to start a fire, she felt like she went into automatic pilot; the act took her over.
She turned off the overhead light in her car before quietly opening the door. She loved this part of it. Blood fizzed through her veins with excitement. She left the car door slightly ajar to avoid the noise of shutting it and ran to a tree in the yard. All was quiet. The owl was silent. She stepped out from the shadow of the tree and walked quickly to the side of the garage. Then she slipped behind the garage and was hidden from the street and the house.
Patty Jo checked out the back of the garage. The propane tank was tucked right between the garage and the house. If the fire burned hot enough, the tank might explode. That would be exciting.
Crouched on her knees, she made a nest of the rags and set the candle in the midst of them. Once she got the candle to stand up by itself, she lit a match. She held it to the wick of the candle and it caught immediately. Such a calm night—no wind to blow it out. The flame pulsed in the night air, greedy.
She crawled backward and then stood up and dusted herself off. The candle hardly even showed, sheltered as it was by the rags. It might be an hour or two before it reached the rags. She would be home, having a drink and then climbing into bed. As she fell asleep, she would think of the building burning down.
Just as she was turning to leave the yard, an outdoor light came on overhead. It startled her so much, she froze for a second. Then, dropping the matches, she started to run.
The first sound Claire heard when they parked the car in front of her old house was an owl under the bluff hooting its thin, haunting song. The second sound she heard was that of someone running along the side of the road.
Then she heard her sister screaming from the front door of the house. “Hurry. I see fire by the garage.”
Rich asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“Help Bridget,” Claire said as she started to run after whoever was getting away.