Point No Point

by Mary Logue

  “Hey, Bill, I’m going in.”

  He looked over at her, but didn’t make a move in her direction. “Go for it. Think I’ll wait for you to unlock the door.”

  After squeezing through the window opening, she landed on the floor in a heap. Dust stirred up and she sneezed. The one-room cabin was dark and cool, an old card table with two chairs took up the middle of the room with two bunk beds built into a far corner.

  Amy heard a gentle rapping on the door. “I’m coming,” she said and picked herself up off the floor.

  After fumbling with the old lock, she finally turned it the right way and the door opened. “How was your day, darling?” she asked.

  “Fine, lover.” Bill walked in, leaned over her and planted a kiss on her upturned face.

  The first kiss was a quick peck on the cheek, appropriate for “Father Knows Best,” but then he moved to her lips.

  Amy pushed him away and said, “Not during work.”

  Bill pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “But we’re not at work, we’re home. Come on.” He grabbed her tightly around the waist and started to rub against her.

  She made herself turn to wood. “Stop it.”

  Instead of stopping, Bill slid his hands up under her shirt.

  She tried to push him away, but he grabbed her shirt and was lifting it over her head. “Not now,” she said, her voice muffled in fabric. At the sound of her voice, he stopped, left her shirt turned inside-out over her face and arms. His hands slid down her body.

  As Bill’s hands undid her pants, Amy started to get frantic. He wasn’t stopping. Her arms were trapped in her shirt. She couldn’t breath with her face covered with the shirt. She kicked out at him and slammed her head into his chest.

  “Ooh, I like it like that,” Bill said. “A little wild.”

  The shirt fell down far enough for her face to be uncovered and Amy screamed as loud as she could.

  Bill stopped and looked at her. “What?”

  She took a deep breath, then spit out each word, carefully and separately, “I — don’t — want — to — do — this.”

  He looked a bit embarrassed, ran his hand over his mouth and joked, “What? Just thought we’d have a little fun.”

  Amy yanked her shirt down and stared at him. “This is not fun. Not for me. What’s the matter with you? Some kind of pervert?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Bill threw up his hands, but

  stepped back from her. “You’re acting like we haven’t done this before? Like I’m trying to rape you or something?”

  “Whenever a man forces himself on a woman it’s rape.”

  “What? Rape 101. Are you serious? Come on, Ame. What’s wrong with getting it on? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

  “I told you not during work. I told you that. What do you not understand about that?”

  “Okay. Enough already. I get it.” Bill stood in the doorway. “I didn’t know you were such a prude.”

  Amy felt like her hair was going to fly off her head. “I’m not a prude. I just don’t want to have sex while I’m working in a dirty, dusty cabin.”

  Bill stayed in the doorway, but turned his back to her.

  Let him be mad, she thought. She smoothed her hair back from her face and tried to gather her wits about her, as her mom would say.

  Amy examined the cabin, walking around and looking at the floor. It was hard to tell but she thought she saw footprints. But who knows when someone had last been in the place.

  At first she would have said that no one had been there recently, but then she noticed a package of crackers open on the table.

  “Crackers,” she said and sat down at the table. “Looks like someone opened these recently.”

  “You talking to me?” Bill turned and asked, sarcastically. Then added, “How do you figure?”

  “Mice. There’s no way this place isn’t crawling with them and they would have demolished these crackers before now.”

  “Good work, detective. So we know someone has been here recently. So what does that prove?”

  Amy picked up a cracker and broke it in half. It was soggy. “Well, actually we know more than that. We know that someone who was famished was here recently. No one else would have bothered with these crackers.”

  “So there’s a chance that Chet was here.”

  “Yes, which would mean that he’s on this side of the river and probably heading east. Which would support what Claire said—that he was probably going home.”

  * * *

  Bridget tied her hair back, splashed her face with ice water, and wafted her arms up and down. She had to talk to Claire about putting air-conditioning into this house of hers. She had been renting it for a few years, but they hadn’t had a hot summer like this one for a long time.

  “Come on, Rachel. Going to Auntie Claire’s, Uncle Rich’s and Meg’s.”

  “My Meg?”

  “Yes.” For some reason, Rachel insisted that Meg was hers. Meg was more like an older sister than a cousin to four-year-old Rachel.

  When Bridget turned around, she saw that her darling daughter had decided to take off all her clothes. “What happened to your shirt and shorts?”

  “Don’t like ‘em.”

  “Well, this isn’t up for debate.” Bridget found the pile of clothes in the hallway outside the bathroom and proceeded to pull the light t-shirt over her daughter’s head.

  “Don’t like it.” Rachel flung her arms around.

  “Not even your cute donkey?” Bridget pointed to the picture of Eeyore on the front of the t-shirt.

  “Don’t want it.” Rachel tried to take it off.

  “You have to wear clothes to go see Meg. She wants to see your donkey.”

  “See the donkey?” Rachel asked.

  “Yup,” Bridget quickly pulled on the shorts. “Let’s get in the car, baby. It’ll be cooler in there.”

  After the two minute ride over, during which the air-conditioning did nothing to cool down the car, walking into Rich’s house felt like walking into a freezer. Bridget had the urge to lay down on the floor and soak up the cool.

  Claire came walking out of the kitchen and Meg came bounding down the stairs. Rachel squealed with delight.

  “I’ll take her up to my room,” Meg said, hoisting Rachel up to her hip and carting her off.

  “Thanks,” Bridget said.

  Claire held up her arm.

  “I see. How broken is it?”

  “Asked like a true doctor. Badly. The bone snapped, then shifted. They had to set it. Torture of the worst kind. The doctor said a good two months.”

  “At least it’s your left arm.”

  “There is a reason we have two arms.”

  Bridget could tell her sister was on the edge. “How’s the menopause going?”

  “Sweating like a pig, but with this weather, everyone is.”

  Bridget knew that estrogen had become a dirty word with many women, who because of some recent studies, feared the long-term effects. “You could go on a low-dose of estrogen just to get you through the transition. Take it for a year or so and that might ease you through.”

  “Ease me through to what—permanent cronedom?” Claire squinched her nose. “I’ll think about it.”

  Letting that subject drop, Bridget sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the piles of paper and the line-up of pill bottles. “Are you organizing your life, Claire?”

  “Not mine. I’m just trying to figure out what it all is. It’s Chet and Anne’s. What’s left of it.”

  “How sad. Do you know what happened yet?”

  “Not really. They still haven’t found Chet. Every hour he’s missing I’m afraid he’ll be found dead.”

  “So you think he killed Anne?”

  “I did. I was sure at first. Now I just don’t know what to think.” Claire pushed over the pill bottles. “What can you tell me about these?”

  Bridget picked up the closest one, Lexapro, and read the label. �
�Very common anti-depressant, anti-anxiety. Low dose. Probably trying to nip it in the bud.”

  “The Lexapro’s for Anne. I have to say I’m surprised to know she was on an antidepressant.”

  “Totally common these days. You can’t believe how many

  prescriptions I fill a day.”

  “These four are for Chet.”

  “Well, Lipitor. You know that. Just for cholesterol. Very common for a man his age.” Then Bridget scanned the remaining three bottles. “Hmm. Looks like he was having some prostate problems. Fairly serious problems. Had he had surgery?”

  “Not that he told us. But I’m thinking the two of them were keeping some secrets. I’ll ask Rich if he knows.”

  “Well, from the looks of these meds, I’d guess that your friend Chet was having trouble being sexually active. Viagra might have helped, but not necessarily. Not if he had had the surgery.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said. “So he can’t get it up and she’s on an antidepressant. Not exactly the happy couple we had imagined.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Dr. Singh?” Claire asked the gentle voice that had answered the phone.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “My name is Claire Watkins. I’m calling from the Pepin County Sheriff’s department. Was Anne Baldwin a patient of yours?” She tucked the phone under her chin and tapped her pencil on the pad of paper she had ready to take notes. With one hand it was difficult.

  “I don’t talk about who my patients are. Why are you calling me?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get off on the wrong foot with you, Dr. Singh. I already know that Anne was your patient. I would like to ask you some questions, if you have a moment.” Claire didn’t quite know how to phrase her next question. “Have you heard what has happened to her?”

  “Anne? Something has happened to her?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Anne has died.”

  A gasp. “No. What happened?”

  “We’re not sure exactly what happened, but it appears Anne died of a gunshot wound to the head three days ago in her home.”

  “This is so terrible. Was it an accident?”

  “We’re not sure. That’s why I’m calling you. I’m wondering if I could come and talk to you about her.”

  Long pause. “How did you know she was my client?”

  “I looked through her bills and saw that she was seeing you. We’re trying to understand if she might have been in the state of mind where she would have shot herself.”

  “This is very difficult. I don’t feel that I can talk about Anne. Client confidentiality.”

  “I understand that you must protect the privacy of your clients. But technically, is that necessary anymore? She’s dead.”

  “Anne’s death is a great loss, but it does not effect the agreement that I make with all my clients when we begin a course of therapy. You understand.”

  Her last sentence was not a question. Claire hoped they could work this out together and she wouldn’t be forced to go to a judge. “According to what I know from the Wisconsin State Psych Board, if you felt that she was a danger either to herself or to others, you, as her therapist, should have made that known to the proper authorities. Now there is a very good chance that she killed herself. Let me ask you this—did you ever consider contacting the police because of her state of mind? Were you ever concerned for her safety?”

  “These are difficult questions.”

  “Why? Why are they difficult questions? You must face them all the time.” Claire could hear her own voice rising. She drew a peace sign on the piece of paper to remind herself to stay calm. It would do no good, she was sure, getting belligerent

  with this woman. “Did you consider her mental health a risk in any way? Did you ever think she might kill herself?”

  “I’m afraid I can say no more.”

  Claire could hear the woman was shutting down on her. “I need this information. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to go to a judge.”

  “That is your prerogative.”

  Claire calculated how long that might take. “If I get a court order, might I come and speak with you tomorrow afternoon?”

  Rustling of papers. “I would be free after five. If you bring a court order, I might consent to a conversation.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Singh. I hope to see you tomorrow.” Claire looked at the peace sign again. Give the woman something. “I’m sorry about the loss of your patient.” She couldn’t help adding, “She was a friend of mine.”

  “Yes, this is a very sad day.”

  * * *

  Even though they had parked in the shade, the back of the car was getting steamy. Meg sat sprawled over Curt, her legs in his lap, his arms around her waist. They had been kissing so long that her lips buzzed.

  Curt strapped his big watch to Meg’s small wrist. They both laughed at how ridiculous it looked.

  He said, “I should go in about five minutes. The cows don’t like to wait. You’re in charge. You keep track of the time.”

  Meg slipped the watch off her wrist and handed it back to

  him. “I have to get home too. My mom is having kind of a hard time with her broken arm and all.”

  “Listen,” Curt said as he slid his hands back around her waist. “My folks are going away this weekend. They’re going to some farm auction. I have to stay home and milk the cows.”

  “You and those cows.” Meg looked down at his hands. “That’s why you’re so good at all this making out and such.”

  For a second Curt looked like he had swallowed his tongue.

  Meg laughed. He loved to mess around, but he didn’t like to talk about it. Curt was a good talker, thinking of being a philosopher, but he got embarrassed whenever she brought up the subject of sex.

  “So what’re you saying?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d like to come over for a picnic. I could make some hamburgers or something.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “Yeah, my sister’s going with them.”

  “We’ll be all alone?”

  “Yeah. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

  “The point of what?”

  He pulled his hands away and sat up. Squished into the back of his Ford Escort made it difficult for either of them to move. “Do I have to spell it out?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “S-E-X.”

  “It’s all sex, Curt. Everything. Kissing, touching. Not any one act is considered sex.”

  “This is driving me crazy, Meg.”

  “That’s because we don’t talk about it and decide what we both want to do and what would be best for us to do right now when we’re only sixteen and living with our parents.”

  “Okay, do you want to sleep with me? Go all the way? Run to home base? Pop the cherry? Is that clear enough?”

  “Yes, but not very romantic.”

  “I don’t think being squished in the back of this car is very romantic.”

  Since Curt was a good half a foot taller than her, Meg guessed he was a lot more uncomfortable at this moment than she was.

  “Do you?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know. It just seems so big.”

  * * *

  Night was falling over his meadow. Standing at the edge of the field, Chet Baldwin could see that his horses had been put away. He didn’t see Rich’s truck in the driveway so he assumed he wasn’t still around.

  It was a time of day in summer that Chet felt he could never get enough of. The brilliant heat of the afternoon had dropped out of the air and left an embracing warmth along with the muted colors of the inside of a flower hanging in the sky.

  Seeing the sky that way reminded him of Anne. He could hear her voice in his head. She had taught him how to see the world. Not just see it but enjoy it. Life with her had been such a pleasure. Not that they hadn’t had their troubles, especially

  lately, but more and more the richness of their life toget
her was coming back to him. What would she want him to do now? He kept asking himself that. If Anne were here, what would she tell him to do?

  Staying in the deep shadows of the treeline, Chet walked through the tall grass at the edge of the field. One thing he knew for sure—he wanted to be home. He would run no more. Whatever would happen would happen on the farm.

  The other thing he was sure of was he needed a drink. Big boulders of memory crashed around in his head that he could not bear. He was hoping if he drank enough liquor they would stop. He couldn’t stand to think of what had happened in the last couple weeks. It ripped him in two. It made him want to hurt something. Hurt himself again.

  As he got close to the house, he had a new worry. Wouldn’t the sheriff and Claire know he’d come back here? Wouldn’t they be waiting for him? There was no car in the driveway, but they could have parked far away and walked in.

  He crouched under a tree at the edge of the yard, just past the garden, and waited. If anyone was in the house they would turn some lights on soon.

  He stayed in a squat, quite sure he couldn’t be seen from the house. Darkness was creeping over the land, its soft black hand scooping up all the stray light remaining in the sky.

  If he could only turn back time to three weeks ago.

  He and Anne would be sitting out on the back patio, swatting the occasional mosquito, laughing, talking about the weather, the crops, what the fall would bring—if it would ever come. Touching hands as they handed each other a drink, some

  chips, just to know the other was there in the gathering dark.

  He wondered where she was now. If he would see her again. If it would be very soon.

  Just then he felt a touch on his shoulder. A slobbery tongue reached out and licked his face.

  CHAPTER 19

  As Amy stood on the doorstep of a rambler in Hastings, she hoped Mrs. Swaggum would let her look through Dean’s files. She pushed back her shoulder-length blond hair. She wished she had a band to put it into a ponytail and get it off her neck.

  Amy didn’t think she’d need a search warrant—after all, she was investigating the murder of the woman’s husband—and she was praying Mrs. Swaggum wouldn’t send her packing. The hour drive back to Durand would mean she would have to come back another day.