by Lyn Cote
Rodd bristled at these last words. He didn't shut God out. But catching the Weasel was his job, not God's—wasn't it? Rodd shifted his attention to the back of Mrs. Benser's silver head. He recalled seeing her at the VFW hall when he'd set up tables. What did she want to discuss with him privately? She'd asked him to meet her at the truck stop north on Highway 27 after church.
The request struck him as more than peculiar. But after the past few months, he had no doubt about her motive for secrecy. A desire to avoid gossip must have prompted her. But if she didn't want to discuss the burglaries—what else? Nothing else occurred to him. Had she heard something, noticed something suspicious? Bringing his mind to the present, Rodd tuned back into the sermon.
The pastor was pleading. "Why do we think God doesn't care about what concerns us, what troubles us? This is an improper form of humility. It doubts God's love for us. We matter to him. Maybe it doesn't seem logical that the Creator of the whole universe and whatever may lie beyond our universe should be concerned with us—small, frail, imperfect humans. But praise God! We do matter to him."
Rodd had never doubted that God cared about humans in general. He didn't usually disagree with the pastor. Maybe it was sitting so still; it made Rodd really feel his fatigue. His inner thigh muscles ached from hours on the snowmobile. Every night after ten o'clock, he spent at least two hours patrolling the county on his snowmobile. It made for a long day—sheriff duties, cattle care, and night patrol. But long days weren't anything new to him. Rodd swallowed a yawn.
Pastor Bruce's voice called him back to attention. "God has given each of us different talents and he expects us to use them. 'Those who wait on the Lord will fly high on wings like eagles.' How much more can we achieve if God is with us giving all our efforts extra energy, more power. His wisdom and his Spirit guide us with his unbelievable clarity."
Rodd's mind echoed the pastor's words: "How much more can we achieve if God is with us?" Why had those words jumped out at him? Would it have made any difference if he had asked God for help in solving the crimes, not just in keeping others out of his way? His mind struggled with this thought, images from his recent nights intruding.
The nightly snowmobiling had been exhilarating to Rodd at first, but Wendy had impressed on him that he needed not only to know the dynamics of riding a snowmobile but also to learn the topography of the county. Most snowmobilers stuck to marked snowmobile trails, but other, more experienced "beelers" didn't. They used these hardy winter vehicles to get around in the snowbound countryside.
Rodd rubbed his aching thigh. With Christmas still a couple of weeks way, the county had already received nearly ninety inches of snow. The weathermen were having a field day with dire predictions of a record-breaking winter of icy temperatures and snowfall totals. The important fact, however, was that so far his midnight patrolling had brought him no insight or clues to the identity of the thief—who evidently had decided to hibernate or go on a winter vacation.
He hoped not—he'd pinned his hopes on the Bingo Fund-raiser. Gus Feeney had been to Steadfast inviting other vets and their families to attend and support the fund-raiser. Harlan had paid for an ad promoting the Bingo Night in the Steadfast Times and Ms. Keely Turner, the LaFollette village board chairwoman, had donated additional money, raising the big jackpot to five hundred dollars. The Black Bear Cafe had buzzed with that news yesterday morning. How could the Weasel resist a prize like that? Rodd tried to keep a rein on his optimism.
A change in the pastor's voice signaled the end of the sermon: "So whatever your motivation—pride, misguided humility, or lack of faith—stop doubting. Start believing and take everything to God. He can and does want to help you with whatever problems you face. Let's rise now and sing our closing hymn, '"I Must Tell Jesus.'"
Rodd wondered if the pastor had chosen this message with him in mind or because of the pastor's own week of tension and worry over Penny and their unborn child. Being forced to watch someone beloved suffer could make even the strongest man feel helpless.
The memory of Wendy lying unconscious flashed in his mind. He owed the Weasel something for attacking someone as sweet as Wendy Carey, a woman who was dear to many people, not just to him. Rodd longed to see the thief in a jail cell.
As the organ played the introduction to the hymn, Rodd gently roused a dozing Zak and set him in the pew. Sharing a hymnal with the small boy who hummed along added to Rodd's enjoyment in singing the familiar melody: "'I must tell Jesus all of my trials; I cannot bear these burdens alone. ... If I but ask him, he will deliver, make of my troubles quickly an end. ... I must tell Jesus.'"
As he sang, Rodd prayed silently, Dear Lord, bless Penny and heal her. Zak and Bruce need her. He missed Wendy, but he was glad she was at Penny's side at the care center today. Rodd sensed Veda McCracken's forbidding presence as he glanced a few pews ahead of him and saw her large form. How did Wendy face that woman's frowns every Sunday?
When the last note of the hymn had been sung, Rodd observed Mrs. Benser walk past him up the aisle. The way she pointedly ignored him gave him a frisson of wariness. What she needed to talk to him about must be serious or she wouldn't avoid even looking in his direction. What does she know?
After Wendy finished checking on her other two patients during her Sunday morning shift in the tranquil care-center wing of the clinic, she walked to Penny's room. She hesitated at the door. Penny lay with her eyes closed, though Wendy doubted she was asleep.
"Wendy?" Penny's flat voice called.
"I'm here." Wendy went to her side and noted Penny's eyes were puffy and red. "How are you feeling?"
"I can't...stop crying."
Snagging the nearby chair, Wendy sat down at her side and took Penny's hand. "You have something to cry about." After days of medication and bed rest, Penny had miscarried earlier this morning.
Penny covered her face with one hand, appearing to try to suppress the sobs that forced their way out of her throat. "I haven't called Bruce. I can't bear to tell him. I didn't want to upset him before he had to preach. He'll be sad for the baby, sad for me. I hate to think of his pain."
The sound of absolute desolation cut Wendy's heart in two. She added her other hand to her grip on Penny and bowed her head. "God, comfort, comfort your people," she whispered, aching to smooth away all of this dear woman's sorrow.
As Penny sobbed and held her abdomen to suppress the painful vibrations, Wendy repeated this prayer. The anguish of the moment allowed no embellishment. Wendy recognized the sound of despair. It awakened a turbulent welter of sensations from her own past. She'd heard despair like this before. Her mother had wept this way many lonely nights in their small trailer, after she'd come home from another "fun" night at Flanagan's.
Wendy tightened her hold on Penny. Lord, she doesn't deserve to suffer like this. She's a good mother who wants another child to love. There are so many neglectful mothers who hurt their children. I don't understand.
Finally, Penny gained control of the heaving in her breast. Tears still ran nonstop from her eyes, but she tried to smile. "Sorry—"
"Don't apologize. You have a right to cry. Holding back your grief won't help you." Wendy had recited these phrases so many times during her years of nursing, but the simple words still rang true. So much suffering in this sad world.
Penny bit her lower lip and eased her sobbing. "Three miscarriages in two years. It's almost more than I can bear."
Wendy nodded in sympathy and concern for her friend.
"But I must. Zak and Bruce depend on me."
Wendy handed her several tissues from a box on the bedside table. Penny used them to wipe her eyes and pink nose. But still the tears leaked out as though a spring inside her had been uncapped.
"What did Old Doc say?" Wendy asked.
"He says I should stop trying to conceive for six months at least. He said my uterus needs time to recover if I'm ever to carry another child to term."
Hearing defeat in Penny's tone, Wendy only nodded
again, saddened by it. She didn't think this was the time for "Nurse Cheerful."
"I'm going to follow his advice, of course."
Wendy encouraged her with a slight smile.
"Bruce and I have just been approved as foster parents by the county."
Wendy had a mixed reaction to this. Being a foster parent who cared for children who could be taken away sounded like running your heart through an old-fashioned wringer washer. Wendy didn't think she could ever let herself stand in such a vulnerable situation. Yet she tried to sound hopeful. "That's so good of you. I know Social Services always needs more families than they have."
A smile glimmered on Penny's flushed face. "They warned me not to do it, thinking I'd be able to find a child to adopt instead." She paused. "That is a temptation, but I'm trying to focus on being a blessing to a child in need."
"That's the best attitude." But a difficult one. Caring for children, then letting them go. Tough duty. Too tough for me.
Penny adjusted the bed to a semi reclining position, making the hospital bed's motor hum. "I know I have so much to be thankful for—" Tears overcame her again.
Wendy claimed one of her hands again. "Don't try to make light of the pain you're suffering. God doesn't expect us to. Let yourself mourn. You've lost a child. God knows what that feels like."
"I hadn't thought of it that way." More tears flooded Penny's eyes, cascading down her flushed cheeks.
Wendy clung to her hand, giving the grieving mother an anchor. The only sounds in the quiet wing were the TVs in the other rooms and Penny's weeping. A quiet Sunday morning in the care center.
As Wendy held Penny's hand, she wondered what it felt like to live Penny's life. She compared and contrasted their lives. Penny was a little older than Wendy—thirty-one. Wendy was single. Penny had a loving husband and a sweet son—two blessings. On the surface, they might appear to have different lives. But Wendy knew something of Penny's feeling of loss, what it felt like to want children and face a future without them.
When she'd decided to come home to Steadfast after college, she'd come back for Sage, for Ma, for Old Doc who'd helped her get her education. All good reasons, but she'd given up the idea of love. After watching her mother suffer, Wendy had decided not to marry. But by deciding to stay single, she'd given up having children too. Rodd's concerned but determined face came unbidden to her mind, as it had too often in the past month. She'd have to guard her heart better.
Still, she worried about him. She hoped he wasn't expending too many late hours alone on the snowmobile. That was a prescription for disaster. She'd tried to warn him about the hazards—drift-hidden fences, spring-fed lakes, sudden ravines. Had he taken her warnings seriously? And the Bingo Night trap—would it bring an end to Rodd's struggle to catch the thief? Oh, Lord, let it be so.
That Sunday evening, steeped in a deep gloom to match the icy night, Rodd and his deputy got out of his Jeep. The wind had died down for the night, and the cold, clear air magnified every sound with its clarity—the grinding sound of their boot soles on the dry snow and the whir of truck tires on the highway a half mile away. They breathed out white puffs as they approached the worn-down farmhouse.
His interview with Mrs. Benser had been an eye-opener. Her information had nothing to do with the burglaries, but opened a completely different can of worms. After an afternoon of checking her facts, he'd been forced to come here, the last place in Wisconsin he wanted to be. And to do what he didn't relish. He hated this kind of nasty little crime. And it took time he'd wanted to devote to preparing for the Saturday bingo stakeout and trap.
The youngest of his deputies caught up with him at the bottom of the porch. They walked side by side up the creaky, rickety steps, making Rodd recall delivering Thanksgiving dinner here. As he knocked on the door, he muttered, "Remember, don't say anything. Just keep your ears open and remember everything that's said."
"Yes, sir."
Veda opened the door. "What do you want?"
"Good evening, Miss McCracken." Rodd took off his hat. "There is something we need to discuss."
She grimaced at them as if they were naughty children. "I don't need or want to discuss anything with you." She started to shut the door.
Rodd had anticipated her action and had his boot wedged in her doorway. Without a change in his even tone, he continued, "Then I'll have to take you down to the police station for questioning—"
"Questioning! What are you up to?" She glared at him, ignoring the deputy.
"There is a matter I need to question you about I can do it here or down at the station." He met her angry gaze without flinching. "It's your choice."
She fumed at them in silence.
He waited for her to open the door wide and let them in. Most people would have at this point. No reasonable person wanted to be taken into the police station.
"And if I refuse?"
He'd anticipated her obstinacy too, but couldn't quite credit it. "Then I'll have to take you by force."
Her breathing began to wheeze, and her face had turned an unpleasant scarlet. "Come in then!" She threw wide the door and stalked away. A stream of foul language spewed from her. The young deputy's eyes widened as he and Rodd entered the room. Veda snapped off the TV and thumped down into a worn recliner. "What's this all about?"
While Rodd eased down into an ancient rocker facing her, he motioned the deputy to sit on the sagging sofa along the wall. Veda exuded a malevolence unexpected from an older woman. He didn't blame Mrs. Benser for taking great pains to keep Veda McCracken from knowing she was the one who'd given the sheriff information; this was one grizzly bear of a woman.
Rodd took his time, arranging himself in the chair, taking off his hat, and opening a small dark notebook. Then he looked across at Veda. "Miss McCracken, since this is a small community I decided to try to settle this privately—"
"Then why's he here?" She jabbed her thumb toward the deputy.
"Police procedure specifies that an officer must always have a witness when questioning anyone. Now this is a matter concerning yesterday's Senior Bazaar—"
"What about it?" she snapped.
"You were the sole treasurer at the bazaar?" He watched for her reaction.
"So?" She gripped the patched arms of her avocado green recliner.
Rodd leveled his gaze at her, aiming at the spot right between her eyes. He could gently ease up to the point for this visit, but why? Why not just fire the charge at her? "You stole $103.50 from the Senior Bazaar profits—"
"What!" Veda reared up in her chair. "Who says so? Which of those mealy-mouthed—"
He continued his attack. "My source isn't important. I've—"
"Liar! Whoever told you this is a liar—"
"I checked my facts before I came," he went on in a calm but insistent voice. "Each participant—"
"Those women can't be trusted to get anything right."
As though she hadn't interrupted, Rodd continued. "Each participant kept track of her sales and her total money taken in. The final sales figure of crafts and bake-sale items came to a total of $103.50 more than you reported."
"That's a lie."
"Those are the facts."
Veda glared at him, her face beet red. "This is just a plot to take the attention away from your botched investigation of the snowmobile burglaries. Think arresting an old woman will make you a big man?" she sneered.
Her venom still had the power to surprise him. And she'd attended church this morning as usual! He kept his tone colorless. "I think stealing is stealing."
She crossed her arms over her breast. "It's their word against mine."
"No, it isn't." Still amazed and somewhat amused at the craftiness of the elderly bazaar women, he looked her straight in the eye. "The women who collected the money marked the bills."
Veda's eyes narrowed. "I didn't see no marks on any bills."
"They were very subtle But every woman who collected money at the table marked each greenback that she
put into the till for the event."
A cunning look came into the woman's eyes. "What kind of marks?"
I'm not telling you, lady. "Each woman had her own mark and will be able to identify it."
"Those—" Another stream of foul invectives about the character and appearance of the women who had worked so hard on the Senior Bazaar followed.
Rodd felt uncomfortable sitting there with his young deputy, listening to such language coming from an old woman. He had heard enough of it in Milwaukee to last him a lifetime. But in the vulgar and profane department, Veda McCracken could top any suspect in the city.
"Evil words come from an evil heart." Rodd recalled the verse from Matthew. He had no problem believing the portrait of Veda that Harlan had painted for him.