by Lucy Sanna
Kate was still hoping he wouldn’t have to go. But she didn’t say it.
A white gull glided close and landed on the railing. Josie flung her arm out. The bird screeched at her and flew away.
Off in the distance an open barge floated southward, to Milwaukee or Chicago perhaps, or all the way to New Orleans. Closer in, a small boat caught Kate’s eye, motoring slowly forward.
“Now you will understand the pain of being apart from your love,” Josie was saying.
It was a blue wooden motorboat, her father’s boat. But the man steering wasn’t Father. Who is that? The late afternoon sun filled Kate’s eyes, blotting out details.
“The Coast Guard supply boat is coming in a few days. Want me to put in a library request for you? Maybe a romance novel or two?”
“Romance novels?” Kate shook her head. “No thank you. But there are some others . . .”
The man below stood and hefted what appeared to be an awkward, weighty bundle. The boat listed sideways as he rolled the bundle overboard. Something wrapped in a blanket.
“What others?” Josie said. “What are you looking at?” She peered toward the scene below.
“Could I have a cigarette?”
Josie picked up her pack of Chesterfields and shook one out. Kate took the cigarette and bent toward her friend for the light, all the while keeping an eye on the water.
The heavy thing flopped out of the blanket and floated just below the surface. Kate put a hand to her mouth and leaned forward, watching it slowly disappear.
“What is it?” Josie said.
Kate quickly turned back to Josie. “What would I like to order? Let’s see . . . Tillie Olsen, Dorothy Parker, Edna O’Brien . . .” She tried to remember the other authors Miss Fleming had recommended.
“Tillie . . . you’ll have to write these down.”
The man at the tiller turned and Kate saw who it was. She stood. “I have to go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHARLOTTE CLIMBED THE LADDER to the loft and forked hay down to the barn floor to mask the scent of bleach, the scent of blood, the scent of evil. Her hair and face were damp with sweat and fear. Her dress clung to her body.
What was that?
She stopped and listened. The ladder scraped on the wood floor below, someone coming up. Her breath caught in her throat. She ducked behind a stack of bales.
“Mrs. Christiansen?”
“Karl!” She came out from her hiding place and stared at him across an expanse of hay.
He was splattered with blood. “It’s done,” he whispered.
When he stepped forward, she stepped back, her mind reeling with the chilling excitement in his eyes as he put the knife to Vehlmer’s throat.
He reached toward her. “Mrs. Christiansen, your face, it is swelling.”
She ducked from his touch. “What were you doing here?”
He backed off, startled. “I came to pick up the tools. A lopper and a rake.”
Lopper and rake? Was it true? She turned away. What would have happened if he hadn’t come? She would have been raped, killed. She hugged herself, shivering with the thought of it.
The tractor growled in the distance. Karl glanced toward the window. “I must now go.”
“But the blood on your clothes . . . how will you explain?”
He looked down at his shirt. “You butchered an animal. I helped you.”
“I don’t have an animal to butcher!”
“Your goat.”
“No! Not my last goat!”
“A chicken then.”
“A chicken? All that from a chicken?” She almost laughed. “You’re pretty sloppy, Karl.”
He didn’t laugh. “You cut off the head. It ran in circles and I caught it.”
“So I’m the sloppy one.”
She had so few chickens left, but there was no other explanation. After the harvest she would replenish her flock. “Yes, a chicken.”
That’s when she heard it. Kate’s voice, coming toward the barn. “Mother! Where are you?”
Charlotte’s heart whirred. “Stay here,” she whispered to Karl, a finger to her lips. Hurrying down the ladder, she reached the floor just as Kate pushed the barn door open.
“What’s going on?” Kate rushed across the dim expanse. “Mother?” As she got closer, she stopped. “What happened to you?”
Charlotte realized what she must look like—her face bruised and swollen, her clothes bloodstained and torn.
Kate’s eyes were wide. “You weren’t in the house . . . I was afraid . . .”
“Afraid . . . ?”
“I saw Karl in the boat. He dumped something overboard . . .”
Charlotte froze.
“It looked like a body.”
“Kate, it’s . . .”
“It’s what?”
Charlotte stared at her daughter.
“Mother! What’s happened?”
If Charlotte told her, Kate would be implicated. “It was a dog. A rabid dog. Karl killed it for me.”
“I don’t believe it,” Kate said. “Why would anyone dump a dead dog into the lake? I saw it. It was a man.”
Kate knew too much. Charlotte would have to take a chance. “It was Vehlmer. The bad one. He was hiding in the barn when I—”
Kate’s hands flew to her mouth. “What did he do?”
“I fought him. I fought him off.” She sucked in her breath, bile rising in her throat.
“Mother?” Kate’s eyes were huge, terrified.
Charlotte worked to control herself. Big slow breaths. A lesson. Let’s turn this into a lesson. She took Kate’s shoulders. “When someone comes after you, you need to keep your head. I did. I kept him away until Karl came and—”
“And what?”
“Karl saved me . . . he killed Vehlmer.”
“Oh, Mother!” Kate grabbed Charlotte into a hug.
“It’s all right, Kate. He didn’t hurt me.” She wasn’t used to hugging her daughter, but now she held her close.
“I’ll get Father.”
“No!” Charlotte pulled away, holding Kate at arm’s length. “He can’t know.”
Kate’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Why not?”
Charlotte was conscious of Karl in the loft. Kate had keen senses like Thomas. If Karl were to move, sneeze, cough, Kate would hear, she’d ask him about it, and who knew what he would say. Charlotte would lose control of the story. She had to stay in control. Her mind recalled Ellie’s words. If Kate cared about Karl, she would want to protect him.
“If the Army finds out, Karl will be taken away. They’ll all be taken away.” She grabbed Kate’s shoulders and whispered, “He may be hanged!”
“No one will care that the crazy Nazi is gone. He could have killed you! He deserved to die!”
Some distant part of Charlotte’s mind registered that Kate didn’t seem to care about Karl’s fate at all.
“We got rid of the body,” Charlotte whispered. “It’s too late to be honest now.”
“But that’s a crime!” Kate blurted, tears running down her cheeks.
“That’s why you can tell no one.” Charlotte held her daughter’s shoulders. “No one! Understand?”
“No! No, I don’t understand!” Kate twisted away, horror in her eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHARLOTTE BUTCHERED one of her beautiful chickens. With shaking hands, she scalded and plucked the bird, seasoned it with fresh rosemary and thyme, and put it into the oven.
She took off the bloodied dress and hid it deep in the laundry hamper. She heated water on the stove and bathed in the tin tub, then changed into a fresh housedress and apron.
Back in the kitchen, the cooking bird smelled like heaven.
Kate didn’t come down to set the table. Charlotte put out the dishes. When the chicken was done, she pulled it from the oven and set it on the wooden counter. She watched out the window, pacing, then sat in the parlor for a bit, staring at nothing.
It
was nearly dusk when Thomas rushed in, slamming the door behind him. The kitchen was still warm with the aroma of roast chicken, but Thomas didn’t seem to notice.
He headed into the parlor. Charlotte followed. He opened the gun cabinet.
“Thomas, what’s going on?”
“One of them escaped.” He pulled out a shotgun and loaded bullets into the magazine. “The bad one. Where’s Kate?”
“Up in her room—”
“Stay inside, both of you. Close the windows, lock the doors.” He looked at her for the first time since entering the room. “Charlotte! What happened to you?” He put the rifle on the table.
She hesitated. The stain, the crime.
He took her face, alarm in his eyes, examining the bruises on her cheeks. “Char?”
“I was in the barn, putting away my gardening tools. I dropped a rake and tripped over it—”
“Oh, Char.” His eyes gazed into her face lovingly. “It’s not like you to be so careless.” He gave her a long hug. “We have to calm ourselves in spite of everything.”
Charlotte stood dumb. She had never told him such a lie. He patted her shoulder, then went upstairs, floorboards squeaking. Charlotte heard him speaking with Kate.
Don’t tell! Charlotte prayed, as if Kate could hear her.
Back downstairs, Thomas opened the kitchen drawer where Charlotte kept the revolver and checked to make sure it was loaded. “Keep this near you.” He grabbed his hat and went out the door.
Oh, Thomas! She wanted to cry. She wanted to tell him not to worry. The Nazi was dead, gone. But it was too late. Too late for the truth now.
Charlotte watched through the window as Thomas and one of the guards walked to the barn. The barn! She froze, her hand to her mouth. Would they notice the stain? Her heart thumped painfully.
After some time, the two men came back out and went to the boathouse and the shed and even the outhouse. Finally, they disappeared into the woods.
Kate came downstairs and saw the chicken cooling on the counter. “Why did you kill one of your chickens? You weren’t going to serve chicken until you had a new flock.”
“Best you don’t ask any more questions, Kate.”
Kate burst into tears. “I can’t do this! Lying to Father . . .”
Kate and Thomas, so alike, so close and trusting. Would she break down and tell him?
“Kate, listen to me. We must be strong together.”
“But how can we sit at the supper table with Father and watch him agonize over this . . . this lie? How can you do this to him, Mother? How can you!”
Charlotte wanted to shout at Kate to mind, to just do as she was told, but she didn’t want her daughter to turn on her, turn to Thomas for support.
“Kate, I know this is hard for you,” she pleaded. “It’s hard for me too. It will be over soon, I’m sure. What happened, happened.” She paused, searching for words that would persuade her daughter. “I wish you hadn’t seen Karl in the boat. I wish you didn’t have to be involved. But you did. And you are. And there’s no going back.”
Kate wiped her nose. “You’re a liar! And now I have to be a liar too!” She ran from the kitchen. Her footsteps resounded on the stairs as she fled to her bedroom and slammed the door.
Charlotte stood for a while, watching out the window, waiting. When no one came to dinner, she covered her beautiful bird with wet cheesecloth and put it into the icebox.
IT WAS NEARLY BEDTIME when Thomas returned. Charlotte was in her nightgown and robe. She served him cold chicken and a salad of spinach and herbs. He always praised her cooking, but tonight he said nothing.
“Have they found him?” she asked, shielding her eyes. She was such a liar. Kate was right. Worse than a liar, a fraud. A fraud of a wife.
“The sheriff’s men are going house to house all up and down the county, warning families to lock their doors and watch for anyone suspicious. They’re checking to see if any boats are missing. That would be a smart thing for an escapee, take a boat, leave no trail.” He shook his head. “People are reporting things missing—tools, animals, dry goods—everywhere from Sister Bay down to southern Door. Vehlmer couldn’t possibly be the culprit in every case, but the sheriff’s men have to check each lead.” Thomas stood. “I’m going to bed.”
After washing the dishes, Charlotte went upstairs. Thomas was lying in bed, eyes staring at the ceiling. His shotgun was on the floor within reach. She switched out the light and slid under the covers. Lying next to her, he took her hand and squeezed it. She turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the tears.
Charlotte woke in a sweat. Vehlmer’s hand clutching her ankle, pulling her down, his scarred face hanging over her. She sat up, heart pounding.
“What!” Thomas startled awake and sat beside her.
“Nothing.” She whispered, shaking her head. “Just a nightmare.” She rubbed her ankle.
“Oh, Charlotte.” When he reached out to hug her, she fell into his arms, sobbing. She sobbed for the fear and the lies. She sobbed for Thomas, so trusting. But her sobs couldn’t shake the image of the bulging eyes, the purple scar, the bloated body. All of it. Floating just below the surface.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHARLOTTE WOKE WITH A MOAN, HEAVING. Her bruised body ached. She slipped from under the covers and hurried down to the kitchen. The burning eyes, sweaty hands clamping hers to the wooden floor. She vomited into the deep porcelain sink. Stomach tight, aching. The grip on her ankle. She tried to will the images away, but they were there. They would always be there.
She pushed back from the sink and doused it with water, then bleach. She had to keep going. Move forward. She started a fire in the stove, heated water for a bath in the tin tub. Clean. Would she ever be clean again? Wrapped in her wool flannel robe, she returned to the bedroom and put on a fresh dress. She wanted to lie down again, but Thomas was there and she couldn’t bear to be touched right now.
She could lie on the couch. Warmer downstairs. Dizzy, Charlotte held to the oak banister. Make yourself tea. In the kitchen, she heard herself moan and grabbed the counter for balance.
She’d go crazy if she held this in. She had to talk to Karl. He was the only one who would understand.
When Kate came into the kitchen, Charlotte struggled to control herself. She needed her daughter to see she was strong.
Kate fumed about, doing her chores, not even looking at Charlotte. She took her breakfast out to the porch, and when she was through, she stomped back upstairs to her room.
Thomas came down, ate his breakfast, scanned the morning paper. Charlotte could barely contain herself until he finally left for the orchard.
She was washing the breakfast dishes when Karl came to the window. “Mrs. Christiansen, does Kate have any lessons for me?”
A ruse, of course. He’s as eager to speak with me as I am with him. “I’m going to the root cellar,” she whispered. “Make sure no one sees you.”
After Karl left the window, Charlotte went to the back of the house and pulled open one of the wooden doors that led down under the kitchen. Like a cave, the dark stone-lined room was always cool, even on the hottest summer days. She lit the wick on the kerosene lamp she kept there, and the dim yellow light revealed rows and rows of empty jars and bins.
This was where the family sheltered from the occasional tornado. Charlotte had stowed emergency provisions—a small barrel of water and tin cups, plates, and eating utensils, woolen blankets, a bottle of kerosene, matches. Except during seasonal storms, she was the only one who came down here.
Soon Karl stepped in and pulled the wooden doors closed above them. Charlotte held up the lantern to show him the way.
He moved quickly toward her. “Your cheek, it is swollen.” He reached out and touched her face.
She put her hand on his and the tears came. “Karl, I’m so scared.”
When she started weeping, he put his arms around her. She was shivering now. “Mrs. Christiansen, you are cold.” He unbuttoned his tan PW
shirt and put it around her shoulders.
“There are blankets . . .” she pointed to the tall barrel.
He moved away to take the cover off the barrel and pull out a woolen blanket. Holding it behind her, he wrapped them up together, pulling her in against his thin undershirt, his warm broad chest. He held her to him, comforting. “It’s better?”
She felt his heartbeat and looked into his eyes, so close to hers. “Karl?”
“We share a secret, Mrs. Christiansen.” His lips came soft on her swollen cheek.
With his muscled arms encircling her, she felt oddly safe. No longer alone. In his protective embrace, she could cry openly, and she did. She sobbed, and he held her and rocked her. Letting out so much she had held in. “Oh, Karl! You saved my life!”
“Mrs. Christiansen.” He rubbed a hand on her back.
“Call me Charlotte,” she murmured.
“Charlotte.” He said her name carefully, as if it were a delicate blossom.
And then she recalled Ellie’s words, and Kate dressing up and sitting at the picnic table, waiting for Karl. Where did they meet? What did they do? Since that morning with Ellie—the same day Vehlmer attacked her—Charlotte had been consumed with the murder, the cover-up. But now it all came back. She pulled away. “What of your secret meetings . . . you and Kate—”
“Secret meetings?” He looked stricken. “No, no. We meet only in your kitchen. For her lessons.”
Could she believe him? She held his gaze for a long moment, but his eyes never wavered from hers.
The romance must be all on Kate’s part, one of her fantasies. And yet, Charlotte remembered that Kate had not been the least bit concerned when she suggested that Karl might be hanged. Maybe Charlotte had been imagining things, worrying for nothing. Maybe Ellie Jensen was wrong about Kate having a boyfriend.
“How could you think it was Kate?” Karl grabbed her arms. “It is you, Charlotte. You.”
She trembled. Before the murder, she would have pushed him away, reluctantly perhaps. But now, the secret they shared, dark and shameful, bound them together. He had fought for her, killed for her. If he hadn’t been there . . . !