Dakota Blues

by Lynne Spreen

  “Hey, look at this. Grandma’s old phone.” A wooden telephone, twice the size of a shoebox, leaned against the back wall of the garage. A black metal microphone protruded from the front of the box, a hand crank attached to the right side. The phone lacked a dial, as the concept of personal phone numbers hadn’t then existed. Grandma had told of winding the crank on the side of the phone to summon the operator at the switchboard in town, who then connected the caller to the other party. Later, when technology improved, customers could dial numbers for themselves, but everyone in the neighborhood shared the same line. No conversation was private, at least not in the view of the adolescent Karen and her girlfriends. They would eavesdrop on other people–until the victim caught on–and hang up screaming with laughter.

  “I love this phone,” she said. “I can see it on my wall at home.”

  “Only one problem,” said a voice from the doorway. “How are you planning to get it there?”

  Karen turned. A woman stood framed in the door of the garage, her thin hair sitting like a gossamer nest atop her head. Her grey polyester pants draped around stick legs, and she leaned on a metal cane, favoring one side.

  Aunt Marie stood. “Karen, this is Frieda Richter. She lives over on the next street.”

  “I would’ve come to the funeral but I was in the hospital. Just got out.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Karen.

  “Nothing important. A little shortness of breath. Thanks for asking.” Frieda aimed her chin at the pile of heirlooms. “Lena was a packrat.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” Karen stood, brushed the dust from her hands, and opened a folding chair. Without comment, Frieda shuffled across the dusty concrete to the empty chair and eased into it, her arms as thin and sharp as bird bones.

  Karen turned back to the pile and reached for a potato ricer. She remembered squeezing the metal arms together, forcing a boiled potato through the holes in the metal basket to create what looked like small, steaming grains of rice.

  “Lena was lucky.”

  “How so?” Karen looked up.

  “She’s dead and I’m stuck in North Dakota.” Frieda focused rheumy blue eyes on Karen. “Did you ever wish you could die?”

  “Acht, here we go,” said Aunt Marie.

  Karen stared at the woman. “Pardon?”

  Frieda pushed her glasses up on her nose and looked out the door of the garage. “The yard has gone downhill. You should hire someone.”

  Aunt Marie sighed and reached for a bread box.

  “That’s kind of blunt,” said Karen.

  Frieda nodded. “You will be too, you get to be my age.”

  The woman was obviously demented. Karen decided to follow Aunt Marie’s lead and focus on the work. She opened a cardboard box and gasped at the folds of delicate embroidery.

  “Now that’s worth saving.” Frieda leaned forward on her cane to get a better look. “Your mother was known all over North Dakota for her needlework. She used to win awards at county fairs.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Probably a lot you don’t know. For example, I have a new great-granddaughter. They’re calling her Sunshine. Don’t know why they didn’t give her a regular name.”

  “Congratulations.” Karen went back to sorting. She remembered when her mother picked up needlework, but she never thought of it as anything more than a hobby. These doilies and tablecloths were the work of an artist.

  Frieda nodded, or maybe it was palsy. Her head seemed unsteady on its neck. “She was born a couple weeks ago.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Not really, because I’ll never get to see her. Lena promised to take me to Denver but now that she’s dead, I don’t have anybody to drive me.”

  Karen fingered a table runner with delicate pastel threads.

  “You’re going to need a way to get all of this back to California.” The old woman gazed at the assortment of antiques, her mouth working silently, as if still involved in the process of speaking. “Have you thought of that?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Course not.” Frieda stared at Karen. “You’re young. You’ve got time. I’m ninety years old and I need a ride to Denver.”

  “Can’t Sandy come and get you?” asked Aunt Marie.

  “Sandy. Now there’s a laugh. No, she won’t drive this far and Richard works.”

  Karen’s knees were beginning to hurt from scrunching around on the floor, and her empty stomach rumbled. She stood, hoping Frieda would get the hint. “Well, good luck. I hope you can find a ride.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t have a ride. I have a vehicle but I can’t drive it anymore. Maybe you’d be interested.”

  “Actually, I have to be home in a week. Sorry.”

  “It’s a Roadtrek 190, a small RV. You pull into a campground and you’re good for the night. I need somebody to drive it. That somebody could be you.”

  Karen chuckled. “Not me, Frieda. I am not your camping type.”

  “Well, you might do yourself a favor and rethink that. Being in the Roadtrek isn’t like camping at all. It’s very comfortable, and it is one hundred percent self-contained. If you need a bathroom, it’s right there. Kitchen, too. Beds, all of it. And it’s easy to drive, I used to myself until I had the stroke.”

  Aunt Marie got up from her chair. “She has to go back to California, to her work.”

  “At her age she should be able to go on vacation when she feels like it.”

  “That’s between her and her employer,” said Aunt Marie.

  “She ought to stick up for herself. A person can’t go through life letting other people dictate what you’re going to do. Anyway it wouldn’t take that long. We could be in Denver in two days if you’re in that big of a hurry. Then a couple more to get to California. That’s all.” The speech seemed to exhaust her. She sat back, breathing hard.

  Karen wasn’t thinking about Denver. She was calculating how much of the loot she could take home in a cheap new suitcase from Walmart, and how much she would need to ship if she called a moving company. The cost would be significant, but she still had access to the household account. At some point she and Steve would have to discuss how to divide it, but so far he’d left it alone.

  Frieda pointed at the pile with her cane. “In the Roadtrek, there’s room for some of this junk, if you pack it right. After you drop me in Denver you go on the rest of the way by yourself, if you’re not afraid. Sell it after you get home and send me the money. If it was me, I’d be thrilled to go somewhere by myself, but since I’m old, I’m resigned to company.”

  “She can leave these things here as long as she wants to,” said Aunt Marie. “In fact, Karen, maybe next summer you could fly back out here, rent a truck, and drive it home.”

  “By next summer we could get hit by a tornado.” Frieda worked her thin hips to the edge of her chair and, using the cane, levered herself upright. She shuffled past Karen, the top of her head barely reaching Karen’s chin. “Let me know when you make up your mind.”

  “I already have. I’d love to help you, but I just don’t have the time.”

  Frieda turned. “Young lady, you have nothing but.” She walked slowly down the street, the tip of her cane tapping on the sidewalk.

  Chapter Seven

  On Saturday morning, Karen stopped at Dickinson Moving and Storage to arrange shipping. At the counter, she angled the phone so the clerk could see the picture on the tiny screen.

  “Sure, we can handle all that. If you want, we’ll wrap and pack it, too. The woman consulted her charts, wrote down a figure, and pushed the paper across the counter. “That should do it. We charge half to get started and the rest on delivery.”

  “Yikes.” For that price, she could buy seats in first class and fly it all home with her. The woman took back the paper. “You could leave behind some of the bigger pieces, like the desk and that sewing machine.”

  “That’s my favorite piece.”

  “Then really, y
our only other option would be to see if you could borrow a truck from a friend. Drive it back yourself.”

  “Let’s do the bigger items. The Singer, and the desk. A couple of the boxes.” Karen handed over her card. “How soon can you get started?”

  Back at Aunt Marie’s, Karen bootlegged an unsecured internet connection from a neighbor and checked her email. She saw nothing but messages of support from her coworkers, so after sending appreciative responses, she shut the computer down.

  The screen door squeaked as her aunt shoved it open with one hip and carried a wooden box into the kitchen. “It’s getting too hot for lettuce, so Mary Jane cleaned out her garden.” Aunt Marie dumped the box on the counter. “Just look at all this.”

  Karen saw a ladybug trying to escape and put it outside. “What can I do?”

  “Get the stewpot and fill it with cold water.” Standing at the sink, the two of them rinsed, chopped, and bagged the greens while Aunt Marie caught her up on the news of the neighborhood. “I thought fried chicken for dinner?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “And tomorrow after Mass, I invited the relatives to come over so they can visit with you before you leave.” She shook the water off a head of lettuce and set it on a clean towel. “How long will you stay?”

  Karen dried her hands and leaned against the counter. “I’m going to take a chance and stay the week.”

  Aunt Marie looked out the window. The wind was picking up ahead of a late-afternoon monsoon. “Are you sure?”

  “I work hard. I don’t take vacations, and I’ve got about a year’s worth of sick leave saved up. I am never away from that stinking office and I’m tired of it.”

  “It’s all right, dear. I just asked.”

  “Let me explain something.” Karen felt reckless, as if admitting the narrowness of her existence now compelled the telling of more secrets. “I feel bad about ignoring Mom. I know you say there’s no need, but I feel guilty. I should have come to see her more often and I didn’t, and now I’d like to make amends. Even though she’s gone, I can at least spend time with the family, and with friends. I’d like to think Mom will somehow be aware I’m hanging around, and if she is, it will make her happy. So that’s my decision, and I don’t care if I get fired. Well, I do, but I don’t think I will, because I have too much history with the place and they’d be insane–well, anyway, my boss is out of town and he’ll never know.”

  Aunt Marie nodded. “I understand, but it’s too bad.”

  “What is?”

  “That you work for such a dumpfbacke.”

  Cousin Joan dropped a corn fritter into the caldron of hot oil and stepped back as the batter bubbled. “You know Frieda’s crazy, don’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I told her no. She’ll have to find another way to Denver.” Karen swiped a strand of hair out of her eyes. The kitchen was hot from all the baking and cooking, and the proximity of relatives. She hardly remembered some of them. Aunt Lizzie was so old and thin, you could practically see through her, and Joan used a cane. There was more than one wheelchair parked out on the back porch.

  “Pound the steak real good.” Aunt Marie watched over Karen’s shoulder as she wielded the meat tenderizer tool. “That way you can get away with a cheaper cut.”

  With flour up to her elbows, Karen rolled the cutlets around chunks of onion, wrapped a strip of bacon around the roll-up and anchored it with a toothpick. After browning the rollups in a frying pan, she transferred them to a casserole dish, drowned them in tomato bisque soup, and set the oven timer for forty-five minutes.

  “Perfect,” said Aunt Marie. “You’ll be a chef in no time.”

  “Joan’s right about Frieda.” Lorraine pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. “She had a yard sale about a month ago. Practically gave all her stuff away. Nobody can figure out why.”

  “I can,” said Joan. “She’s goin’ to Denver to die. I would say good riddance but I don’t want God mad at me. Got enough problems.”

  Marie’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Don’t mind Joan. She’s still unhappy about that baking contest. What’s it been, thirty years?”

  “Frieda cheated. And it wasn’t that long ago.” Joan ladled hot fritters from the kettle.

  “It surely was,” said Aunt Lizzie, her voice a raspy whisper. “I believe the peanut farmer was president.”

  After dinner, Karen carried plates of cake and ice cream into the living room where the men were fooling around with musical instruments. Uncle Roger tested the keys on the piano while Lorraine’s husband Jim plucked at a guitar. Uncle Rudy opened a black case and lifted out a long, skinny accordion. The bellows were hexagonal and edged with mother-of-pearl. Rudy slipped his hands into the straps at both ends, looking up at Karen from under bushy white eyebrows. “It’s a concertina, almost a hundred years old,” he said, fanning the bellows. “My father brought it with him from the Banat, in Austria-Hungary.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “We should be done warming up about the time everybody’s through with dessert. Go on and get some for yourself.”

  Karen went back to the kitchen. Without a break in the gossip, the women scooted their chairs aside to let her into the circle. Joan was showing off her new wood-burning kit. “This angled thingy here? You use it for edging,” she said. “Say you’ve got a picture frame you wanted to gussy up, you can personalize it with designs or lettering or what-have-you. There’s even a tip for calligraphy. See here?”

  “You guys are all so creative,” said Karen. “I’m in awe.”

  “I crochet,” said Aunt Lizzie. She wore a faded blue shirtwaist and knee-highs that were rolled down to her ankles. “My specialty is baptismal sets.”

  “Some of the ladies around here have gotten real good at quilting,” said Lorraine. “They were even featured on TV recently. On the Today show.”

  “They’re famous,” said Aunt Lizzie.

  “Famous is relative,” said Joan as she packed up her woodworking tools. “Remember we are talking North Dakota.”

  “I wish I had time to be creative,” said Karen.

  Joan shrugged. “It’s no big thing. Gals around here are used to working hard, and when the kids grow up and move away, they don’t know how to stop. So they find other things to do.”

  “The men, too,” said Lizzie. “My Earl used to like to garden.”

  “As long as they’re digging around in the dirt or playing with knives, they’re happy.”

  “Many of them paint or do wood carving.”

  “You have to do something, especially in the winter. Otherwise you go crazy with boredom.”

  “Only if you’re retired,” said Lorraine. “Some of us don’t have time to get bored.”

  “Quit complaining. You’ll get your turn.”

  “I doubt it, the way the country’s going. I’ll be working until I drop.”

  “Who wants more cake?”

  Karen held out her plate for another guilty slice. Her aunts and cousins might not wear the latest styles nor do Pilates four times a week, but they knew how to keep their families healthy during a North Dakota winter. They were expert cooks, even if they still prepared food as if their families worked all day in the fields. They could decorate their homes with what they made by hand, and clothe their children with a few yards of cheap cotton from the fabric store. Did the world still appreciate that kind of strength?

  The first jubilant notes of a polka called to them from the living room, and the women pushed back from the table. Karen dug her camera out of her purse.

  The older women scrunched together on the couch, while the younger ones sat on the carpet. Karen found herself singing along with her elderly relatives to a familiar beer-hall polka, and felt both dorky and sad. Aunt Marie, always seeming to sense her moods, squeezed her shoulder. Rudy pressed the accordion’s buttons and moved the square bellows in and out, the mother-of-pearl embellishments twinkling in the lamplight. The women clapped, keeping time, and K
aren remembered seeing her parents whirling around the floor of the banquet hall at St. Joseph’s. As a child she had learned to dance with her father, but he was impatient and she, self-conscious. The best dancing she ever did was with her mother, when the bandleader summoned the children onto the dance floor for a twirl with their parents.

  The music brought back another form of nostalgia, reminding Karen of her neighborhood back home in Newport where it wasn’t unusual to hear polka music coming from a passing car or truck. In California they called it banda music, the familiar polka beat having migrated into Mexico in the eighteen hundreds from German settlements in Texas.

  Rudy’s work-worn fingers moved quickly across the keys, and he opened and closed the bellows as he had for the last seventy years, as his father had taught him before leaving European soil. A blanket of melancholy threatened Karen. When the notes finally faded, Lorraine nudged her. “I think I heard your phone.”

  Karen checked the display and called voicemail. Steve sounded upset, so she slipped into the back bedroom and called him at work.

  “We need to list the house,” he said without preamble.

  “I’m fine, thanks, and you?”

  “Sorry. I’ve been trying to call you for the past day and you haven’t answered.”

  “And now that I have, I find you’re calling to kick me out of our house.” She felt her pulse accelerate, readying for battle.

  “Look,” he said, his tone softer, “I know you’re pissed, and I’ve told you a million times that I’m sorry. But let’s be practical. Sell it to me and we can skip the realtors and save ourselves a bundle.”

  Her fingernails gouged half-moons into her palms as she pictured his new family in her house. The cul-de-sac, the multiple bedrooms, the pool–it would be a perfect nest. Just not for her.

  “The upkeep is a bitch,” he said. “You don’t like the house anyway. This is your big chance to buy something more to your liking, and I can make you a generous offer.”